At Hogwarts Under Compulsion
by NoviceWordsmith
Summary: Everybody would like to attend Hogwarts School, but what if someone were compelled to attend against their wishes?  This is an exploration of JKR's universe, and doesn't deal with any of her major characters except Dumbledore and some other professors.
1. A New Home

**DISCLAIMER:** JK Rowling created and owns this universe of Wizards and Hogwarts School and Diagon Alley. Only characters and situations you don't recognize are my own. I get no remuneration of any kind for this writing, and I try to obey the laws of JKR's universe as best I understand them.

* * *

**A New Home**

The wind blew. It was dark— it was light— it was both— it was neither— but the wind blew hard. It wasn't cold, it wasn't dry; it was just implacable, like a semi-solid wall pushing him back. He struggled forward against it, but the boy could hardly keep to his feet. Suddenly his hand slipped away— and the boy realized he had been holding his father's hand. The wind nearly lifted him from the ground, pushing him backwards, backwards, backwards. He barely heard his father call to him, "Just remember, son: remember..."

He started up in his bed, breathing heavily. The room settled down into familiar patterns as the boy tried to remember what it was his father wanted him to remember. He looked around the quiet room, awash in moonlight and the dim, friendly glow of the nightlight. The same toys, the same clothes, some of the same books; they tried to make it as familiar as possible. They even included the night-light that looked like a funny little goblin with a cheery smile and glowing eyes. But in this bedroom, the night-light happened to be alive.

* * *

The conquest was over. It had been a surprisingly long struggle, but the wizards finally battered down the last resistance and firmly established their rule over the Muggles. Then, in a move that nobody had expected, the Ministry of Magic started courting and cultivating any young Muggle they found who had even the slightest gifting in magic. Those wizards who placed high value on "pure blood" wizard families were outraged, but after much heated argument, and a few spectacular duels and small conflicts, the decision was enforced: anybody with magic was to be brought under the auspices (and therefore, under the control) of the Ministry. If the Muggles objected to their children being thus cultivated, the children were removed from their influence and placed as fosterlings in wizard households. This brought some interesting issues to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

* * *

"I'd rather not go to Hogwarts, sir." 

Mr. Gulder wasn't completely surprised. Since he'd taken in this Muggle fosterling... _No,_ he reminded himself, _this boy isn't a Muggle: he has magic._ That was the whole reason the Gulders had been asked to foster him. But ever since then, this boy had steadfastly resisted almost every attempt to develop his gift. Now he stood in Gulder's study, resolute as only an 11-year-old boy can be, but still maintaining a respectful attitude. _Ah, well,_ thought Gulder, _let's have another go at it._

"But think of all the fun you can have there, Chrys. It's a first-rate school, it has the finest teachers, and I can tell you, wizarding can be wonderfully exciting."

The boy seemed unconvinced. "I was taught that wizardry can be dangerous," he said.

"Anything can be dangerous, boy. Look at it this way: even your parents'... philosophy... said you should develop the talents and skills that you have. There's no doubt that you have magic: you've seen it and so have I. So by your own philosophy you should develop it."

"My philosophy, as you call it, also says that magic is destructive, is wicked, and should be avoided. I don't want to get caught up with demons just because it's exciting at the beginning."

Now it was Gulder's turn to get annoyed. "Oh, bosh! Demons, demons, demons; are you still caught in that old nonsense? Yes, there are spirits that are rather nasty, but most wizards avoid them. Your people are always so quick to accuse us of working with demons. I tell you, that's all a lot of rot!"

"Not from what I've seen of the wizarding world," pursued Chrys, relentlessly. "Taking children away from their parents, hexing and ridiculing people who don't agree with wizarding policies, murdering people they can't intimidate… You're just as petty, just as rude, just as wicked as Muggles, only you've got magic to force your way on people. If that's not demonic activity then I don't know what is."

Mr. Gulder mentally sighed. Some of these Muggle children were incredibly well-indoctrinated. He decided to use the strong-arm approach. "Chrysophylax, who won the war?"

The boy flushed with indignation. It was hard enough to get used to a new name (one of the re-education methods set down by the Wizard's Council), but _that_ name: so similar, yet so different... Then he took a deep breath to calm himself. "The wizards won, sir."

"Exactly. So regardless of how nice your parents' religion was," and here Mr. Gulder spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, "It is now irrelevant." He paused to let that sink in, then resumed in a more friendly tone. "I admit we wizards aren't perfect: we have problems just like everybody else. But if you look honestly at the history of your own religion you'll have to admit many of them did worse things than the crimes you just listed. The sooner you forget those old ideas, the better off you'll be. Besides, there'll be plenty of other youngsters like you at Hogwarts who are just discovering their talents."

"Yes, sir," answered Chrys glumly. _Choose your battles,_ he told himself. _You can learn things without believing them. Besides, Father promised he'd never completely leave you alone. As long as you remember him, you can be strong. Maybe..._ and here Chrys smiled just a little... _maybe your new name could be a reminder. It __**is**__ similar, you know. And Dad has a quite sense of humor..._

"Please, sir, where did the name 'Chrysophylax' come from?"

Mr. Gulder reflected that this boy changed topics faster than a Boggart in a crowd. He looked sharply at Chrys, but detected no insolence or belligerence behind the question, and Gulder was very good at reading people. Gulder realized that he rather enjoyed Chrys' respectful curiosity. This boy might get on well at Hogwarts.

"Let me see," he said, "the first I heard it was in the days of Vortigern."

Chrys gasped in open-mouthed astonishment. Gulder noticed him, paused in confusion, then went on almost peevishly, "Well I wasn't there myself, of course. I read it in my history."

Chrys blushed, then giggled in embarrassment. Soon Gulder himself started chuckling. "I guess it did rather sound like I'd been there, didn't it? Ha, ha, ha! Do I really look that old, you young scamp?"

Chrys tried to reply several times, but was always overcome by laughter. Finally he gasped out, "No sir. I mean, well, I wasn't sure, sir." Then they both dissolved into laughter again.

"Well, as I _intended_ to say," resumed Gulder, when they both could breathe calmly again, "The first I encountered the name was in my history book. Chrysophylax Dives was a dragon, and I remember thinking the name had a good, solid cadence to it. Then somewhere in the late 1100s a wizard by that name did a lot of development in the field of Alchemy. There may have been one or two others, but those are the two I remember."

"A dragon and an alchemist. Well, I rather like it, sir. It's uncommon, but not unusable."

"Hear, hear!" said Gulder. "Now, run along for a bit, there's a good chap. I've got some work to do."

Chrys went out into the back yard, and was soon half way up the old elm tree.

Being a foster-parent, Gulder realized anew, brought up all sorts of interesting questions. They started on the very first day with the most common situation in the world (common, but now not quite common): how should Chrys address them? "Father" and "Mother" were too dear, too recently lost. "Mr. Gulder" and "Mrs. Gulder" were entirely too formal, and no matter what the modern generation thought, Gulder held no truck with children addressing their elders by their given names. "Uncle" and "Aunt" seemed to be comfortable for everyone, and so it was decided. He smiled as he remembered now Chrys had discovered a facet of their two names that he and his wife had never noticed: Albrecht and Althea both began with the syllable "Al", and Chrys was delighted at having an Uncle Al and an Aunt Al. Laughter is so important, Gulder realized, and it's a good thing we all seem to have a good store of it on tap.

"Whatever was all that laughter about, Brick?" asked Mrs. Gulder as she came into the study. "From the boy's expression when he went in, I expected an argument."

"So did I, dear," said Gulder. "Fortunately Chrys seems to be a rather mature fellow. I'm not certain I've convinced him, but I think he's accepting the fact that he's a wizard-- at least, for the moment."

"Well, he's young still, and that's a mercy. But out with it now: what were you two cackling about? I chuckled just to hear you."

Gulder smiled again at the memory of the moment. "Well, you know how I sometimes say things not quite the right way? He asked me where we got his name, Chrysophylax. So I said something about hearing it in the time of Vortigern. I meant that I'd read about it in my history, of course, but he thought I'd actually been there! The young scamp! Now I ask you, Thea: Do I really look 1200 years old?"

Althea's eyes started dancing with amusement. "Of course not! I should have guessed 1300 at the very least!" She sat on the couch laughing as he howled in mock anguish. "And no wonder you're such a slow-coach! Here and I thought it was just laziness!" she went on. "Just wait until I notify the Daily Prophet on your next birthday. 'Local wizard, Albrecht Gulder, celebrated his 1301st birthday this year, with his remarkably young wife.' Won't that spark conversation at The Leaky Cauldron?"

"Old, am I?" he cried with mock ferocity, grabbing up a flower from the vase on the desk. "I'll show you who's old!"

Her eyes sparkled wickedly as Gulder came over and threatened her with a flower that suddenly growled and flexed its leaves angrily. She gestured, and it became a butterfly with a tiny crutch and a long beard. As the two wizards dueled each other, the poor flower changed this way and that way until finally it exploded into an egg which hatched, revealing a tiny dove which looked appealingly at them both, holding an olive branch in its beak. Gulder's guffaws mingled with his wife's shrieks of laugher as he sank onto the couch next to her.

"Ah, me!" she said finally. "I haven't laughed so hard in ever so long. Chrys has certainly been good for us. I'm so glad we volunteered to foster him, Brick. It's almost..." she paused, and then sighed.

Gulder put his arm around his wife's shoulder as she looked at the picture on the bookshelf. The picture of a young man grinned broadly at them and waved his O.W.L.s in triumph. After a moment, he said quietly, "I know, dear. It's almost like having Rand back again."

Thea put her head against his shoulder, and held his other hand in her lap. Brick hugged her gently.

"No," she said, but not moving, "I'm not going to cry. We've got to move on."

"Yes," he answered, "but we'll not forget him, either."

"Of course not," she said, and then she sat up. "Perhaps that's why we get on with Chrys so well. We've all experienced the loss of loved ones."

Brick sighed a little. "Were we right to tell him about his parents?"

"Definitely," said Thea. "Most children aren't as delicate as all that. I'm not saying they shouldn't be protected, but the truth is always better than some cover-up. It's best to know the truth, and then you can get on with your life. After the first two days with him I knew he needed the truth and that he could handle it."

"Althea," he said, looking squarely into her eyes, "You are the most wonderful woman I have ever known. I'm so glad you did most of the talking when we told Chrys. I could have gotten the job done, of course, but you had just the right balance of compassion and honesty."

"I treated him the way I should want to be treated," she replied. "But you are the foundation I stood on, Albrecht. Deep loss can teach one how to help another through their loss, but I would never have survived my own loss without your support and love."

* * *

The elm tree was a splendid place in which to think. Chrys had always been a climber, and the moment he saw the tree he knew he'd have to climb it. From the second branch he could look into his bedroom window. From the fourth branch he could see the entire yard and the woods nearby. The vista from the sixth branch included the hill in the woods on one side and the stream meandering a quarter of a mile away on the other side. The early afternoon sun was reflected in the stream, so Chrys looked toward the cool, inviting woods. It almost seemed that a light jump would take him to the woods… 

"No!" he scolded himself, "That's what got me into this mess in the first place!"

Yes, he'd always been a climber. Well, alright; it was more than that. He'd always been able to scamper around in the trees like a squirrel— but couldn't everybody? How was he to know? Well, alright; when he was five or six it began to dawn on him that everyone wasn't able to do that. But nobody said it was _that_ unusual.

But it was. It was magic. Even though he'd never told anybody about it, he'd known it was magic ever since IT happened. When he was six Chrys had climbed a tree in the woods near his home. He'd scurried up a tree on a windy day, away up near the top. Only holding on with one hand he had swung around in the tree pretending he was on a ship tossed in a storm. Suddenly the branch broke beneath him and his hand slipped, but instead of crashing through the branches to the ground he found himself on another branch in a tree twenty feet away.

"And now I'm here with the Gulders, and I'm going to be packed off to some school to learn witchcraft. Father, how could you let this happen?"

The warm wind blew gently, rocking the branch on which Chrys was sitting. Puffy clouds wandered past, apparently unaffected by the philosophical quandary occupying an elm branch below them. One group of clouds looked like a mountain range, and Chrys started humming a tune, inspired by the magnificent view before him. He felt uplifted. Almost without thinking he began to sing: "I sing the mighty power of…" A door in his mind closed. Chrys stopped, cocking his head in curiosity. Why had he stopped? No, he hadn't stopped: he had _been_ stopped. As the pondered, Chrys remembered hearing something whispered to the Gulders the night he'd been delivered to their home, something about a memory charm… and past associations. Apparently this song included something the charm didn't like.

Chrys frowned. Nobody likes to have their mind tampered with, and annoyance gripped Chrys' stomach. He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could to break through that door. "I SING THE MIGHTY POWER OF… OF…" It was no use. He knew what the next word must be, but he could not pronounce it. After five minutes he gave up, and slouched against the bole of the tree, pouting. "I hate the wizards! I hate their wicked magic! I hate their stupid charm! Dad, how could you let this happen!?"

Quietly, the idea of a challenge blossomed in his mind. He had just spoken to Father out loud and the charm had allowed it. So, that was it! Alright then, he'd just fish around and find the limits of this charm. Soon he had found a key that opened an entire verse of the song, which he rebelliously sang out loud:

"I sing the mighty power of _Him_  
Who made the mountains rise,  
Who spread the flowing seas abroad  
And built the lofty skies.  
I sing the Wisdom that ordained  
The sun to rule the day;  
The moon shines full at His command  
And all the stars obey!"

* * *

NOTES: 

Vortigern – A British king who usurped the throne from the family of Uther Pendragon, Arthur's father. After Vortigern's death, the throne was restored to Arthur.

Chrysophylax Dives - See "Farmer Giles of Ham" by J.R.R. Tolkien


	2. Shopping

**Shopping**

"Here we are, Chrysophylax: Ollivander's, the best wands ever made. Why, I remember when I got my first wand here."

The dim interior of the shop, with its floor-to-ceiling shelves and general atmosphere of age, was relaxing after the busy street. Chrys was getting rather tired of constant vigilance during the day of shopping in Diagon Alley. He wanted to remain polite, but he struggled inwardly. _Dad, I'm awfully nervous about all these things: cauldrons, books of spells, robes-- I don't want to get sucked into sin._

Just remember my name.

That seemed like a curious thought. Then it hit him. Of course! In a world where names were significant, there were names... and there were Names. With that thought, Chrys' smile became more genuine.

Mr. Ollivander greeted him respectfully, then hunted about the shelves and brought back ten or twelve long narrow boxes. "How about this one? Thirteen inches, yew, dragon scale. No? Perhaps an eleven-inch oak, unicorn tail and thistle, good for heavy work. No? Perhaps an eleven-and-a-half inch willow, human hair and bluebird feather, good for charms."

With each wand, Chrys dutifully held it and waved it, but also silently pronounced his Dad's Name. None of the wands responded. Chrys grew hopeful that no wand would work for him, when Mr. Ollivander produced another wand. He looked oddly at it, and Chrys couldn't decide if Mr. Ollivander disliked the wand or if he were afraid of it.

"Well, try this one, but it's really not the appropriate sort of thing at all. I can't think why I ever kept it in my shop."

When Chrys took the wand he felt like it was a hand holding his hand, warm and reassuring. He silently pronounced the Name and waved the wand. A faint sound was heard, like the chiming of silver bells, or the innocent laughter of children. Chrys smiled with delight. Then he saw the shocked and disapproving look on Mr. Gulder's face.

"What in the world...? Is this some sort of joke? What sort of wand is that?"

Mr. Ollivander looked as if he were struggling between embarrassment and curiosity. "My, my! A most unusual response from a wand!"

Chrys looked up hopefully. "I rather like it, sir. Where did it come from?"

"Well, I made it, of course; I make every wand I sell. But that one... that was among the first wands I ever made; almost an experiment. Twelve inches of cedar, and in the core I put a sliver of..." he took a deep breath, "a sliver of iron."

"Iron??" exploded Mr. Gulder. "Iron, in a wand?! Ollivander, I am shocked! No wonder it doesn't behave like a proper wand. I'm surprised it doesn't blister his hand! Get rid of this thing; the boy needs a proper wand."

"But I like it..."

"Tut, tut; we don't want you starting off at a disadvantage, Chrys. Trust me in this matter."

But after trying two dozen more wands, none gave any response. Finally Mr. Ollivander produced a wand, ten-and-a-half inches, hemlock... and he didn't mention what was in the core. When Chrys picked it up, he almost dropped it. The wand seemed to cling to his hand, almost as if the wand was moving his hand rather than his hand moving the wand. And when Chrys wrestled his hand to wave it (as always, silently pronouncing the Name), it managed to produce two or three feeble greenish sparks.

"That's more like it, Chrys," said Gulder. "That's the sort of thing a wizard can build upon, isn't it, Ollivander?"

"Well, I have known wands to improve with use," he said cautiously.

"Please, sir," said Chrys, "This wand feels... wrong... in my hand. I much prefer the other one. May I have it instead?" The hemlock wand felt like it was trying to invade his body through his hand; as if it would always be trying to control him. Chrys put it down as quickly as he decently could, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his trousers.

"But nobody wants a wand that jangles," said Gulder, forcing a laugh. "You might as well tie pots and pans to your wrists. It's just not right."

"May I try it again?" asked Chrys, trying to sound casual. As they grumpily agreed, Chrys desperately thought, _"Father, help! Out of all these wands the cedar wand felt nicest, but are any of these good for me? Help me decide!"_ As the cedar wand again seemed to grasp his hand in a friendly (though invisible) hand-shake, Chrys thought the Name and slowly waved his arm in a wide arc. The wand left a twelve-inch swath of deep blue brightness, studded with tiny stars. The dusty air in the shop seemed briefly invigorated, as if by a bracing draught from a snowy mountain. Chrys faintly heard the silvery chimes again, but he concentrated on the feel. The invisible hand from the wand did not clutch his hand, it didn't pull or push his hand. It felt like a friendly hand-shake, willing to help and not trying to control. Somehow it reminded Chrys of Father. He smiled brightly.

"At least it was quiet this time, although I don't much care for the kind of light it made," said Gulder.

"This is the wand for me," said Chrys happily. "Please, I don't want any other."

"Oh, very well. I daresay Hogwarts will set it right. But, iron...!" Mr. Gulder shuddered.

As Gulder paid for the wand, Chrys thought about the core. Suddenly he understood why the wand reminded him of Father: wood and iron. Dad always delighted in tucking reminders about himself into odd items. Chrys shivered with delight and awe as he whispered, "Dulce lignum, dulces clavos, dulcia ferens pondera..."

"Practicing spells already, young fellow?" said Mr. Ollivander cordially, as he gave the wrapped box to him.

Chrys looked up, startled. Practicing _spells_? "No, sir," he said, "At least, I don't think so, sir."

Mr. Ollivander smiled at him. "Good. Better wait until you're at Hogwarts, under the guidance of those who know better. Have a good year."

Later, as they were enjoying a treat at Florian Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlor, sitting at a table outside the shop, Chrys asked, "Uncle Al, why were you so surprised at the idea of iron in a wand?"

Mr. Gulder tried to control his irritation while he evaluated how much information to tell Chrys. This was an odd twist he had certainly never considered and it needed to be handled delicately. Gulder glanced around, but nobody was nearby, so he answered (a little quietly).

"Well, Chrys, iron and magic just don't blend very well. In fact, some of the older magic races couldn't abide it at all. They called it the 'blood-metal' and couldn't work any magic when it was near. Of course, we have no difficulty with it at all nowadays, but still... well, wizards just don't have it lying about much. Magic is a very exacting art, and there's no sense making it more difficult. So I don't want you using that wand without proper supervision, and that means either me or one of your teachers at Hogwarts. Understand? No experimenting on your own."

"Yes, sir," said Chrys honestly. _No fear,_ he thought to himself. _I don't want to deal with magic at all, let alone larking about on my own._ "And thank you," he added, smiling "for the pumpkin tart. It's very tasty."

"My pleasure; I enjoy 'em myself. So you see, my boy, we aren't all spider webs and snake gizzards, or whatever bosh you were told about us." (Chrys giggled.) "We're quite decent folk. Well, just one more stop today," he said, rising from his chair.

As they walked down the street, Chrys looked into the windows of the shops. Suddenly he stopped. Bright beady eyes looked at him inquisitively from the other side of the glass. They were set in a small head which was attached to a long, lithe body covered with gold and brown fur. The ferret rose up with her fore paws against the glass, meeting Chrys' enraptured gaze eye to eye.

"Oh, Uncle Al!" said Chrys. "May I stop and look a bit here?"

"Well, yes, you may; but why not go inside? This is where we're headed." As he followed Chrys' eager dash into The Magical Menagerie Gulder thought with relief, _At last! It looks like we've one shop here where the boy won't be everlastingly resistant to every little thing. What a day it's been!_

Chrys wished he had nine eyes, there was so much to look at in the shop. The raptor section alone had kites, merlins, falcons, goshawks, and eagles. There were loads of other birds, and of course a solid selection of owls. He glanced quickly over the reptiles, but none of them held his interest.

When he moved around to the small mammals he looked for the creature he'd seen in the window. "There it is!" he cried excitedly. "What a beaut! Do you know what kind of animal it is?"

"Well, it says here that she's a ferret. That's sort of a domesticated relative of the mink or weasel. Shall we see if we can have her out of the cage for a bit?"

Chrys almost danced with excitement as the proprietress opened the cage and lifted out the golden ferret. He was so excited he didn't notice the curious gesture she made when she put the ferret into his arms. The ferret, of course, thoroughly inspected everything about Chrys, running up one arm, over his shoulder, onto the other arm, around his waist, looking into his shirt pocket, inspecting up his sleeve. She was almost constant motion, traveling with a fluid grace. Chrys knelt down on the floor, and the ferret flowed down his leg and ran around under his ankle. Mr. Gulder knelt down, too, and soon the ferret was inspecting him as well.

"What do you think, son?" chuckled Mr. Gulder.

"Zhava!" said Chrys. The ferret paused, and looked at him.

"She seems to know her name. Does it mean anything?" _So, he's a Namer, eh?_ thought Gulder.

"I think it means 'golden' or 'goldie'. She is golden, but she's so quick!" said Chrys. "Zhava?" he said, and held out his hands to her. The ferret flowed over and curled up in his arms.

"It seems we have a match here. Would you like to have her as a pet?"

Chrys took a deep breath. Then another. Finally he said, "Will she... will it take much to care for her?" He almost couldn't bear to hear the answer. Mr. Gulder looked up at the proprietress, then got to his feet.

"Oh, not much more bother than an owl," said Madame Rowan. "Ferrets are rather frisky until they've settled down into a household, and they're everlastingly curious about everything. But food should be no problem, _if_..." and here she arched an eyebrow at Chrys, "you keep in mind she's an animal, and don't feed her all sorts of human food. Candy and desserts will be the death of her."

"Oh, I wouldn't!" said Chrys. "Just tell me what to feed her."

"And health issues?" asked Mr. Gulder.

"None to speak of," Madame Rowan assured him. "Ferrets are a healthy breed. They're pretty much comfortable when we're comfortable, although they prefer it to be on the cool side. You will have noticed the distinctive aroma?"

Chrys deflated slightly. "It is rather strong, isn't it? Can anything be done about it?"

"Unfortunately, no. Some people don't seem to mind it, but I do try to bring up the subject before the sale is made."

Chrys looked up at Mr. Gulder with an expression that was part hopeful and part resigned.

"What do you think of it, Chrys?" asked Mr. Gulder. "Be honest, now."

"Well, I'm not sure. It's noticeable, and it's curious... but I don't think I mind it much. Let me think," and he closed his eyes. The ferret, fully rested now, started re-investigating his shirt pockets. Chrys giggled, but tried to focus. "Two weeks from now what would I think of it?" He opened his eyes and looked at Mr. Gulder. "I don't think it would bother me, sir. What do you think of it? And what will Aunt Al think?"

"To tell the truth, I hardly noticed it until it was mentioned. I guess for all its size my nose isn't terribly sensitive," he said, grinning at Chrys. "And I remember Althea was very patient with some of the pets that Rand brought home from time to time. I think I can speak for her in this case. Shall we take Zhava home with us?"

The tension of anticipated disappointment burst into joy. "Oh, thank you!" said Chrys. "Zhava!" he cried, as the ferret wriggled smoothly into the sleeve of his jumper. "Zhava, come out here!"

Mr. Gulder laughed as the ferret's head popped out of the jumper neck, giving Chrys a very odd two-headed appearance

* * *

NOTES: 

"Dulce lignum..." - From a Latin hymn: "Sweet the wood (of the Cross), sweet the iron (of the nails), sweet the burden (Jesus as He was crucified)."

Blood-Metal - See the Pleistocene novels by Julian May.


	3. On The Train

**On the Train**

"Come along, Chrys," said Mr. Gulder, as they walked along the platforms at the train station. "Platform 9¾ is right up ahead." When they arrived at Platform 9, Mr. Gulder glanced around. There were lots of people rushing to get onto a train, or rushing to get off a train: the best atmosphere for getting onto Platform 9¾. One had to be much more careful when there were just a few people lounging about.

"Splendid!" said Mr. Gulder. "Althea, why don't you show Chrys how it's done? Now, watch, Chrys; it really isn't difficult at all." Mrs. Gulder purposefully walked up to the wall between Platform 9 and Platform 10... and then she was gone.

"Now you, Chrys. Just push on through as if it were an open gate. Never mind the bricks: concentrate on getting _through_. You might want to take it at a trot the first time, to get up some momentum. Off you go now."

There wasn't time for misgivings. Chrys held tightly to the trolley and pushed rapidly toward the wall. Then he was through. The sun still shone brightly, the air smelt much the same. True, the Hogwart's Express was a bit more garish than the typical English train, but in many ways it was quite familiar and "earth-bound." Chrys blushed slightly to himself. _After all, God makes the sun shine on the just and on the unjust,_ he thought. _I shouldn't be too quick to put people in either category._

Mrs. Gulder beckoned him over to her. "You don't want to be standing in the gateway too long, dear," she said. "One never knows who's coming through next, or how much they have on their trolley."

Mr. Gulder came strolling through the gate, and together they walked toward the train. There was plenty of time before the train left: Mr. Gulder was very insistent about that. So they walked along the entire length of the train, looking at all the cars, checking over the news stand, and chatting with others who were sending children off to Hogwarts.

His baggage stowed away, Chrys was joining the queue to get aboard the train when the Gulders beckoned him to come.

"Chrys," Mr. Gulder said sincerely, "I know this is all a wrench for you, getting pulled away from your family and put into a culture with a different outlook on things. And now you're being packed off to a school you've never heard of and I imagine it's rather overwhelming. I want you to know that I think you're a fine fellow. I think you can do very well at Hogwarts, and I'm proud to sponsor you. On the other hand, I know you have very deep religious feelings about our way of life. I respect you, Chrys, whatever you decide. I will ask you, though, to give it an honest try."

"Thank you, sir," said Chrys. "You and Aunt Al have both been awfully decent to me. Thank you for telling me the truth about my Mum and Dad, even though it was hard."

"It was hard, dear," said Mrs. Gulder, "for everyone. I can't think what it would be like myself. But we've tried to make you welcome, and you've grown quite dear to us." She hugged him for a moment, and Chrys was extremely glad she did, as it gave him the chance to quickly dab his tears away onto her cloak.

The train whistle blew, and Mrs. Gulder stood up. "Off you go, Chrys," said Mr. Gulder. They followed him toward the coach steps.

"Study hard and don't misbehave," said Mrs. Gulder briskly, "or I shan't hesitate to send you a Howler you won't forget!"

"A Howler? What's a Howler?" asked Chrys from the steps.

"Just don't try to find out," retorted Mrs. Gulder.

* * *

On the train, Chrys moved along the car glancing into the compartments. He saw one with a lone boy his age in it. The boy looked a little nervous, so Chrys stopped and smiled at him. "Do you mind...?" Chrys inquired. 

The boy looked at Chrys, then he leaned forward with a wicked gleam in his eye. "Would you dare," he challenged, "share a compartment with a black-hearted, unrepentant, dyed-in-the-wool... Nonconformist?"

Chrys was momentarily taken aback, then he stepped back and glanced up and down the passageway in an exaggerated fashion. Then he turned to the boy, assumed his best piratical voice, and snarled, "Ar, Oi'd be proud t' throw me bunk wit' yers, cap'n, and to ayd yeh in any Nonconforming outryge that yeh may devoise in yer unrepentant moind!"

The train started with a jerk, and Chrys fell laughing into the compartment. Howling with glee, the other boy helped Chrys get up and sit on the opposite seat. Chrys said, "That was brilliant! I had to think twice before I remembered what a Nonconformist might be!"

"Brilliant?" said the other boy, "Who's brilliant? When you started looking up and down the passageway, I almost died! I thought you were going to call the conductor or someone, and have them turn my tongue into a snake! By the way, I'm known as George, George Haldane."

"George?" said Chrys, "The dragon-slayer! We should get along famously. I'm named after a dragon. I'm known as Chrysophylax, Chrysophylax Gulder."

"Chrysophylax. Bit of a mouthful, isn't it?" said George.

"Oh, I hated it at first, not being my real name and all. But then I got to thinking how very similar it is to another Name." He winked at George. "Now I think it's wonderfully funny that a wizard named me Chrys!"

"Chrys?" said George delightedly. "Chrys?? What a gas!"

"Isn't it? And my fosters call me Chrys all the time. It's spelled with a 'y' of course, but you can't tell that from saying it. Doesn't Dad have a great sense of humor?"

"I never thought of it that way. But of course you're right. How else could he have invented the hippopotamus, and the giraffe, and the octopus, and put them all on the same planet?"

* * *

The train arrived at the station that evening. All the first-years were herded down to the dock and loaded onto the boats. Chrys and George shared a boat with two girls. As they glided over the dark waters of the lake, the castle loomed above them, progressively blocking out the sunset with its massive bulk. 

"Oooo!" squealed one of the girls with delight. "It's just like Mum told me it would be! Isn't it wonderful?"

Chrys and George glanced at each other. Neither wanted to admit to being afraid, but neither was particularly comforted by the prospect of being drawn into the castle. Seen in its own shadow, the castle's towers, walls, embattlements, deep casements, and heavily carved doors all presented an appearance of multi-faceted darkness. The glowing windows somehow contributed to this ominous impression, rather than relieving it.

_Oh, Dad,_ thought Chrys, _Do these walls keep you out? Will I be cut off from you here? _A bird squawked a warning to the deepening twilight, and up above the stars began to decorate the evening sky.

I will never leave you or forsake you.

Suddenly, without changing, the light from the castle windows looked warm, the stars twinkled merrily overhead, and the bird's cry became a cheerful salute to the sunset. A small stone fell from the castle somewhere and dropped with a silly ploop! into the lake near their boat. Chrys grinned at George.

George nodded at the sky, and said quietly, "'E knows 'em awl by nyme, mytey. Don't f'rget tat."

"Aye, aye, cap'n," answered Chrys, "An' the darkness don't 'ide nothin' from 'Im."

When the boats docked they all scrambled out onto the platform and started up the wide stairway. At the top of the stairway stood a tall, thin witch with a stern expression on her face. She looked rather old, but there was nothing weak or frail about her. Her posture gave her soft emerald robes an air of inflexible authority. She wore a conical hat, which might have looked funny on someone else, but on her looked dignified, as if the hat was honored to be allowed to sit upon her head. The students climbed the stairs, all suspecting (correctly) that she was evaluating them. She led them into a small ante-chamber, then closed the door behind them.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said. "I am Professor McGonagall. Before you eat, you will be sorted into one of four Houses. They are Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw. While you are at Hogwarts, your House will be your family. Any rewards you receive will accrue points for your House. Any rule-breaking" and here she managed to look even more severe "will lose points from your House. At the end of the term the House with the most points will be awarded the House Cup." She paused to let this sink in, then said, "Wait here until we're ready for the Sorting Ceremony." She then turned and walked through a large door, closing it behind her.

Chrys glanced around and noticed a girl toward the back of the group. She looked deeply mistrustful, and her crossed arms and barely restrained scowl suggested a broad streak of stubbornness in her character. Chrys nudged George.

"Do you know her, that girl at the back?" he asked, nodding his head towards her.

"No. She doesn't look happy about being here, does she?" he answered.

"Not very. And somehow I can't see her getting on well with Professor McGonagall. They both look rather... determined, don't you think?"

"Hmmm," agreed George. "How many other Nonconformists do you suppose are in our class?"

"No idea. I've only been with the Gulders for 5 or 6 weeks, and they kept me rather isolated from 'past associations.' I don't know anyone in this crowd except you."

Suddenly a look of horror froze the girl's face. She pressed against the stone wall, inching sideways toward George and Chrys, all the time staring at the back wall. Several first-years screamed. Ghosts were flowing though the back wall. They were multiple shades of soft grey and rather transparent. Ostensibly unaware of the fright their annual entrance caused, they seemed occupied in conversation together. Then one ghost stopped and looked at the first-years. He had been a well-muscled man in life, and wore a sword at his belt and had silvery splotches of blood about his arms and shoulders.

"First-years, eh?" said the Bloody Baron. As he glanced around the group, he suddenly frowned. "What are the likes of _you_ doing here?" He rounded on George and Chris, his expression a fierce mixture of anger and fear. He drew his sword, and as he glided toward them he somehow seemed to glow brighter, as if he were approaching a fire. It was almost as if a light shown at him that only he could see, a light that shown brighter as he approached the its source: the two boys. He stopped about three feet away from them, glowing in anger, fear, and the strange light.

"Well?" he shouted, threatening them with his sword. "What are you doing here? Can't you leave us alone?"

It was an odd sight: the first-years all backed toward one wall, the ghosts backed toward the opposite, and the Bloody Baron glowing in the middle. An unbiased observer would have had difficulty deciding which group was the more nervous. George looked at Chrys, who returned his puzzled stare with a frightened shrug. Then George turned to the ghost.

"We're h… here because the Ministry of Magic ordered it, sir," he managed to say. "I'm... I'm sorry if we offend you."

Another ghost, dressed in a monk's habit, came up and pulled the Bloody Baron away. "Come, come, Baron," he said. "Haven't you followed any of the recent events since The War? It was bound to happen sooner or later. And after all, we're really not in much of a position to withstand it."

"And I suppose you think it's just grand, do you?" snarled the Baron. "Do you like having _**Him**_ so near? Your old _associate_?"

The Bloody Baron laughed mirthlessly, then whisked through the closed door into the Great Hall. The Fat Friar looked at the two boys, then approached them reluctantly. He also seemed to be affected by the invisible light, glowing brighter as he approached the two. He seemed distressed, and as he spoke the boys weren't certain whether he was speaking to them or to someone else.

"Please forgive the Baron," he said nervously. "He had a difficult time during the Protectorate, as, of course, You know. And... and welcome to Hogwarts." Then he quickly glided back, and all of the ghosts hurriedly flowed into the Great Hall.

For two seconds nobody moved. Then the air crackled with questions. "What in the world happened?" "Did you see that?" "What was that light?" "I've never seen a ghost do that." "Who are those two?" "What did you do?"

"I don't know..." began George, when Professor McGonagall opened the doors.

"Silence, please! The Sorting Ceremony is ready to begin. Form a line and follow me."

As McGonagall led the way into the Great Hall, Chrys noticed that the girl had not moved from her spot directly behind Chrys and George. He turned toward her, and offered his hand.

"Come on, it's alright now," he said with a little swagger in his voice.

"I don't want to go in," she said in a strained voice. "I don't want to be here."

"I know how you feel," said Chrys. "I didn't want to come here either. I can't explain now, but you needn't be afraid: just stick with me and George. Now come on, we'll be left behind."

She looked at him for a moment, then stepped away and joined the line of students. Chrys brought up the rear as they strode the length of the Great Hall.

It was certainly an impressive hall, even splendid, with high stone walls that seemed to open up to the night sky. The thousands of candles floating in midair gave a warm glow that was reflected by the long wooden tables set with golden plates and goblets. At the head table the teachers were all seated, facing the students. Professor McGonagall lined up the first-years in front of the head table, then placed a four-legged stool in front of them. On the stool was the Sorting Hat.

The hat twitched, opened the crack near the brim which served as its mouth, and began to chant:

_It's time to start another year  
And I must divvy up this throng.  
I look inside each first-year's head  
And find to which House they belong._

_One might belong in Gryffindor,  
The loyal, brave, true and daring;  
And if ambition kills not love  
The Lion you'll be wearing._

_To balance them is Slytherin,  
Decisive, crafty, sharp and keen.  
If vict'ry matters most of all  
I'll dress you in the green._

_Another choice is Hufflepuff,  
Enduring, patient, kind, and strong.  
If you're the one who gets things done  
Then here's where you belong._

_The final choice is Ravenclaw,  
Far-seeing, witty, true, and wise.  
If quick in mind and deep in thought  
Then Ravenclaw's your prize._

_So that's my job, I've done it well  
For centuries, if I may crow.  
Some are easy, some are hard,  
Yet where to place I always know._

_But e're I split you into four  
One thought you'd better not forget:  
The rope that's made of four strands joined--  
A stronger rope I've never met._

_So put me on! I will not bite!  
I love to make the test.  
Of all the hats you'll ever wear  
A Thinking Hat is best!_

The hall burst into applause, and the Hat bowed to each of the four tables. Then the Hat became quite still, and Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a parchment in her hand. As she read each name from the list, the student sat on the stool and put on the Sorting Hat. Usually, the Hat shouted its decision quickly, although sometimes it seemed to think a while.

Chrys started getting nervous. _Oh, Dad... first ghosts, and now this. What am I letting myself into? Father...? _Then a most curious thing happened. The only way he could explain it was to say it felt like an indulgent smile inside his head. Somehow, it allowed him to relax.

"Gulder, Chrysophylax"

Chrys went to the stool, took a deep breath, and put on the Hat. It came down over his eyes, blocking his view of the Hall. Then he heard a dry little voice very near his ear.

"Well, well... good mind... interesting blend of talent... and..." Suddenly, the Hat seemed to gasp in surprise. "What...? WHO...? ...!!"

Chrys opened his eyes inside the Hat. _Sorry,_ he thought to the hat, _Am I doing something wrong? _"What?" said the Hat, obviously distracted from whatever had surprised it. "Oh, you? No. I mean, it shouldn't matter. But I've never had to deal with... with… and indwelling such a young boy! Well... as You wish, of course,... but..." And now the voice seemed very hesitant. "Very well. I think... er, shall we say... Ravenclaw?" Apparently the Hat felt confirmation, so it shouted "RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaw table burst into applause as Chrys took off the Hat and put it on the stool. He went down and was warmly welcomed to the table by several older Ravenclaws.

Hackles, Jeremy went to Slytherin. Haight, Belladonna went to Hufflepuff. Then George was called. Chrys watched the Hat closely when George put it on. It didn't look any different from when it was on Haight's head, but it did take a longer time to announce its choice. Finally it shouted "GRYFFINDOR!"

The Gryffindor table cheered loudly, and George seemed pleased. But when he sat at the Gryffindor table, he looked over at Chrys. His look made the same statement that Chrys felt: Darn! I'd hoped we'd be in the same House. Chrys managed a weak smile. Then a twinkle ignited in his eye. He arched his eyebrow, grinned at George, and gave him the thumbs up. George grinned back, thumbs up. Yes, we'll make it work. Just let them try to stop us!

As he turned his attention back to the Sorting, Professor McGonagall called out, "Timson, Paula." It was the girl Chrys and George had noticed in the ante-chamber. She took one step forward, and stopped. Then she said, "I don't want to do this."

Professor McGonagall seemed momentarily unsure how to address this situation. Then (to the great surprise of the older students) she spoke to the girl in a kind, though still inflexible, tone.

"You must be one of the children who knew nothing about our world until you got here. I assure you, Miss Timson, there is nothing to be afraid of. And you must be in one of the Houses to study at Hogwarts."

"I don't want to be here," said Paula, flatly. "I don't want to study at Hogwarts. Magic is evil, and I DON'T WANT TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT!"

The Hall was stunned. Even the candles seemed to stop flickering in shock. The silence following this statement quickly dissolved into agitated discussions throughout the Hall. Even the professors seemed unsure how to handle the situation. Then Professor Dumbledore stood up, walked around the head table, and went and stood next to Paula.

"May I have your attention?" he said. His deep voice was mild, but managed to penetrate to the corners of the Hall. "As I'm sure you're aware, we did not all grow up with the same background and culture. Even wizards do not all share exactly the same philosophy, which is one reason there are four Houses at Hogwarts. The War of the last few years has made great changes in our world. As in every war, much that was good has been destroyed, and much that was not good has managed to survive. I point out this obvious fact because our side, the wizards, won The War. It is very easy for us to assume, therefore, that we are right. Even more dangerous, it is easy for us to assume that we are always right about everything. I suggest that a more accurate evaluation would be to say that we are currently more successful.

"Miss Timson has just expressed a view that I think very few of us at Hogwarts agree with." Then he turned to Paula. "Miss Timson, I'm afraid that wizards share the common human tendency to think we're better than others; in our case, better than Muggles."

When he turned back to the rest of the Hall, silence still reigned (although the candles had resumed their gentle flickering). "Fellow wizards, teachers and students of Hogwarts, we have an excellent opportunity now to demonstrate the truth of our thinking. Are we really better than Muggles, or merely stronger? Are wizards more noble, or merely—at present— more successful? Perhaps the way we behave toward Miss Timson, and others like her, will be the clearest answer to that question."

Then he actually knelt down on one knee. He was still a head taller than the girl, but the gesture was riveting. Every professor looked stunned as the Headmaster addressed the girl. "Miss Timson, I do not know what you and your family suffered in the War, but I am sorry that you suffered. One result of the War is that all of us, wizards and Muggles, are in a world that is not completely to the liking of either group, yet we all have to deal with it as best we can. You don't know me and have no reason to trust me, but I have to ask you to do just that: trust me. I know something about various Muggle philosophies and religions, so I think I understand a little of what is behind your statement. Perhaps later on you can correct me if I'm wrong. You were asked to come to Hogwarts because you have a talent, a gift. Miss Timson, please think long and carefully before you finally decide where your talent came from, but I can tell you this with absolute certainty: it did not come from wizards. I'm asking you to give us a chance: one year. One year to carefully explore the talent that you have, for your own good, and quite possibly for the good of our whole world."

Paula took a deep, shuddering breath. Then she slowly raised her arm and offered a trembling hand to Professor Dumbledore. "One year."

Only Professor Dumbledore could see the expressions racing around her face, darting in and out behind her eyes. He recognized, even if she didn't, that she was struggling against the charms temporarily placed on her mind to make her more amenable to the Ministry's orders. Such charms couldn't completely control a person, but were very effective, especially when the subject was unskilled or unpracticed in their use. He carefully, solemnly, took her hand in his. "Thank you, Miss Timson." Then he stood up and Paula walked over and put on the Hat.

A low buzz went around all the tables in the hall (including the head table) as the Sorting Hat deliberated. Finally the Hat shouted "RAVENCLAW!" Chrys jumped up and started applauding. Immediately the Ravenclaw table followed suit, applauding and cheering, joined in by the Hufflepuff table. The applause was a little less enthusiastic at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, but was there none the less. Tears streamed down her face as Paula walked over to the Ravenclaw table and sat next to Chrys, head down, trying to shut out the rest of the world. One of the Ravenclaw prefects left her place at the table and came and sat next to Paula, putting her arm around her.

Still crying, Paula didn't notice the food magically appear on the table. Soon everyone was eating and talking and trying not to stare at the Ravenclaw table. Chrys leaned over to Paula and said, "That was awfully brave of you. I can't imagine having that much nerve!"

"Yes," said the prefect. "That was courage worthy of Gryffindor, but I'm glad you're with us in Ravenclaw. My name's Priscilla Timmons and I'm a prefect this year. Our surnames are almost the same, don't you think, only a little backward. Now, won't you have something to eat, dear?"

She glanced around the table to find something nearby. Chrys noticed her gaze pause on a bowl of fruit. It looked wonderfully fresh and appealing, but almost without thinking, he quickly passed a platter with bread and cheese.

"How about some bread or cheese?" he asked. "They're very good." _And just in case_, he thought, _just in case she's also a Nonconformist (and who else would call magic "evil"?), offering her some fruit just now might have really bad connotations._

* * *

NOTES: 

Nonconformist - In the 1700s in England, Protestants who did not conform to the Church of England were known as "Nonconformists." In this story, I use the term the same way Americans use the term "Evangelical Christian".

The Protectorate - The time in British history when Oliver Cromwell overthrew the Monarchy and ruled England: roughly equivalent to the Moral Majority taking over the Presidency, both Houses of Congress, and the military.


	4. Ravenclaw

**Ravenclaw**

"Ravenclaws, follow me, please."

The well-fed and rather sleepy students left the Great Hall and started toward their Common Rooms. Bert O'Cuinn, the other Ravenclaw prefect, led the way while Priscilla walked with Paula. Chrys found himself walking with another first-year who had curly, rusty-colored hair, an open, smiling face, and... well, the only way to describe them was to say "beautiful" eyes. They were large, not quite slanted, mossy green with gold flecks, yet for all their beauty, they gave the boy an almost wild appearance. This was especially true when they danced above an impish grin.

"Alf Tollers," he introduced himself to Chrys.

"Chrys Gulder." They shook hands.

"Ever been here before?"

"Never," replied Chrys. "You?"

"I visited last year when my older brother graduated. You've got to keep sharp, or you could get lost for hours. See that griffin on the newel post there?"

Chrys glanced over at the small bronze griffin balanced sedately at the end of the stone stairway leading up to the left.

"Bad signpost," said Alf. "It moves about a lot. You're much safer learning the picture frames."

As their group turned right Chrys noticed a large picture with an ornate frame of gilt leaves and roundels. The young huntsman in the picture waved merrily at them.

"The frames?" asked Chrys. Even though he had seen moving pictures at the Gulders' house, he was startled by oil paintings that moved.

"Oh, yes," said Alf. "The people in the pictures keep moving about and visiting each other, but the frames are always constant. They're the most reliable signposts in the castle."

"What a stupid way of managing things! You'd think they'd use magic for convenience rather than making things more inconvenient."

Alf looked at Chrys strangely, as if he couldn't believe the other boy was so dense. But before he could say anything they arrived at Ravenclaw Tower.

"Here we are," called Bert. "Gather round, please. This is the entrance to the Ravenclaw Common Room." He pointed to an archway in the wall that led through a short hallway into a room decorated warmly in earth tones and leather. Above the archway the word RAVENCLAW was carved in rich ornamentation, and to the right of the archway was a larger-than-life painting of a lion, almost four feet tall. The huge head nearly filled the frame as it rested its chin on its paws and stared out at them, but its eyes were wide awake and alert.

"The Common Rooms are for House members only," said Bert. "Everyone knows approximately where the four Common Rooms are, but the key to getting inside is a secret shared by House members only.

"Not much of a secret, is it?" Chrys commented to Alf.

"Good," said Bert. "We fooled you, too. Now listen closely, this is the password." He glanced at the lion, and said, "Veritas." Suddenly, a solid oak door appeared in the archway. Bert opened it, and led the way into a room that was completely different from the one they'd seen before. This room was very open with lots of windows, and painted in hues of blue and white. The soft white carpet contrasted with the deep, almost black, blue of the ceiling, giving an overall effect of being in the clouds.

"Boys dormitories are up to the left, girls are up to the right," said Bert. "You'll find your things have already been brought up for you. But before everyone splits up there are some House announcements. Everyone, sit down please."

Some of the older students grumbled, but since Bert wasn't such a bad sort they were prepared to listen for awhile. Everyone settled down somewhere (the carpet was really quite comfortable) and Bert and Priscilla stood together by the door. Bert quickly reviewed the standard House rules, and then dismissed them. A few of the older students stayed in the Common Room, but the first-years all went up to their dormitories to unpack and claim their spot.

"Beds with curtains! I've never had one of those before," said Chrys. "What a classy place!"

"You'll be real glad for those curtains in a month or so," said Alf. "Especially being by the window. You'll notice there isn't any fireplace in here."

"I'll take the window anyway," said Chrys. "What a terrific view. Is this way east?"

"Don't know," yawned Alf. "You'll find out tomorrow. G'night."

Chrys changed and got into bed. Soon the room was quiet, but Chrys was still looking out the window at the countryside, strange with moonlight. _Thanks for this... adventure, Father. I'm scared to death, but excited all the same. When I saw what happened to the ghosts, I knew I'd be alright here. Thanks especially for George. Hope he does all right in Gryffindor. Thanks for Alf. And Paula... Dad, I hope she gets over her nervousness soon. Oh, and please watch over the Gulders. G'night._

* * *

As a matter of fact, it was a south-east window, and the sun woke Chrys the next morning. Someone knocked on the door, then Bert's voice called "Half an hour until breakfast!" 

Chrys got up and dressed quickly, proud of his new academic robes. He glanced over and saw that Alf was still sitting sleepily on the edge of his bed. "Come on, Alf," he said. "Perhaps we'll have waffles for breakfast!"

Alf looked over at him with half-opened eyes. "You always this chipper first thing in the morning?" he asked.

Chrys laughed. Then, recognizing Alf as someone who ran on a different clock from himself, said, "I'll wait for you outside the Door, but get a move on."

There were no waffles for breakfast that morning, but nobody seemed disappointed. While munching toast and soft-boiled eggs Chrys nervously looked over the schedule handed out to the first-years: Herbology with Hufflepuff and History of Magic with Slytherin this morning, Flying with Gryffindor and Transfigurations with Hufflepuff this afternoon. Nothing much to worry about there, although he'd have to think carefully about Transfigurations.

* * *

After lunch Chrys and Alf went out the great front doors, and headed down the steps toward the flying field. Chrys spotted George a little ahead of them. 

"George! Hold up!"

George turned and waited for them, smiling. "Well, come on, then!"

"George, this is Alf Tollers. Alf, George Haldane."

"Right, then," said George, shaking hands. As they all resumed the trek to the flying field, he asked, "Ever flown before, Tollers?"

"Just a bit around the woods. Of course, I suppose it doesn't matter any more, eh?"

"Probably not," said Chrys. "I've never flown, of course, but like anybody I've dreamed about it." He turned to Alf, "I'm... what's the phrase... Muggle-born... right? Muggle: funny word. Anyway, I never knew real magic existed until..." Chrys looked a little confused, and Alf regarded him with wary surprise. "...until the... Ministry...? Anyway, here I am at Hogwarts, and I guess we're all going to learn how to fly a broomstick. Sounds like a ripping good time, eh?"

"So you're one of those... uh, fosterlings?" Alf seemed unsure how to speak of the subject.

"We both are," said George. "'Orphans of the War', so to speak."

"Are you real… I mean, are your parents… um, do you know if…"

George and Chrys both slowed their pace, and looked down at the path. But before either could say anything, Alf interrupted his own question.

"Please forget I said that," he said. "Beastly of me to blunder into personal matters that way. A real Slytherin thing to do. I'm sorry."

Chrys smiled at him, thankful for Alf's attitude. "Thanks, Alf. You're a brick."

By now the students had all arrived at the field where Madame Hooch had two lines of broomsticks lying in neat rows on the ground.

"Good afternoon, class," said Madame Hooch briskly. She was a small woman of immense energy. Although she was actually an inch shorter than most of the first-years, she was completely in control of the situation.

"Good afternoon, Madame Hooch," they all chorused.

"Right. Well, don't just stand there. Everybody, pick a broom. Stand to the left of it... good... a little closer to the middle, Gulder... that's right." She paced down the middle of the two rows, inspecting everyone, then turned at the end to face them all.

"Is there something wrong, Timson?"

Paula was standing in line, her arms folded, and a scowl on her face. "I don't want to learn to fly on a broom. I don't ever want to fly on a broom."

Madame Hooch seemed barely to glance at Paula as she reached out and tapped the student on the head. "Well, we all have unpleasant duties to do once in a while; just chalk this up as one of them." Then Madam Hooch turned her attention to the whole class. "Now, hold your right arm out at shoulder height, and command 'Up!' (Open your hand, Smith.)"

Paula was so startled at being tapped on the head, and then not being given an opportunity to argue, that she instinctively obeyed the teacher's directions. Her broomstick actually raised up into her hand before she realized what she'd done.

There was a chorus of voices calling "Up!" One or two brooms did rise to the waiting hands, but most barely shifted on the ground. Madame Hooch again paced between the two rows. She stopped by George, whose broom was moving slowly, apparently unsure whether or not to make the effort to rise to George's hand.

"Come, come, Haldane. Don't _ask_ it to rise: _command_ it! Like this!" She stepped up to the broom, said "Up!", and the broom snapped into her hand. She dropped the broom and said, "Like that. Now, you do it."

George held out his hand, and strongly said, "Up!" The broom wiggled in such a way that George was certain it was laughing at him. He took a deep breath and bellowed, "You stupid stick, I said UP!! _HEY!!!_" The broom snapped up into George's hand and kept on going. In two seconds George was hanging by one hand from his broom about 15 feet off the ground.

"Hold on, George!" called Chrys, as everyone gasped in surprise.

Madame Hooch's whistle blew. "Everybody FREEZE!" she commanded. She grabbed a broom and launched herself up after George.

"Now just hold tight, Mr. Haldane," she said calmly, as if this sort of thing happened every other day. "I'm going to fly behind you and come up under you so you can ride in front of me on my broom. Steady now." As she maneuvered herself below George, she said, "Steady; here we are... No! Don't let go of your broom: they do cost something, you know! Right. Now, tell your broom 'Finite.'"

As George said the word, the broom relaxed. His instant of victory ended as Madame Hooch dropped her broom to the ground, leaving George wondering if his stomach was still up in the air. "Well done, Haldane," she said. "At least you kept your wits about you. Now, the rest of you: what did you just learn?"

Half of the group had been wide-eyed with fear, the other half giggling behind their hands. Suddenly they all tried to refocus on the class.

"Did anybody learn anything?" asked Madame Hooch.

Alf spoke up. "Always respect your broom."

"Well done. Five points for Ravenclaw. That's it exactly: always respect your broom. Even if it's old enough to be your Grandmother, even if it flies like an arthritic crow... always respect it. A broom is like a horse, for those of you who've ever dealt with a real horse. You must command it, but command with respect. Got that? Fortunately, brooms have somewhat less personality than horses. And by the way, even when something unexpected happens do try to remember that you are in school. Learn from _every_thing! Now then, once again: 'Up'."

By the end of the class everybody managed to mount their broom and fly in more or less controlled circles about five feet off the ground. Remaining completely within the concepts of obedience and "growing up", Madame Hooch almost bullied Paula into flying the circle. When she landed, Paula wasn't frowning quite so much, but inside she was rather close to tears. Madame Hooch did nothing to even imply "I told you so", but immediately began working with the next student.

Chrys wasn't very steady, Alf was good at it; and George was excited.

"I never thought I'd be able to fly like that!" he said, as they walked back toward the castle after class. "And it's a lot more comfortable that I thought it would be. You know, it looks rather uncomfortable: just a stick without even a bicycle seat or anything."

"Bicycle seat? What's a bicycle?" asked Alf.

"You don't know what a bicycle is?" said George, incredulously. "It's a… well, it's like two wheels, you know… and um, you ride it, and…"

"It's a metal frame holding together two wheels," cut in Chrys. "The rear wheel is driven by a pedal and chain mechanism that you work with your feet. You sit on a small saddle above the pedals and between the two wheels. The metal frame is about the size of a broomstick so that's why there's a saddle to sit on."

"I get it… sort of," said Alf. "Why don't they have an invisible cushion, like brooms?"

"Alf," said George with mock exasperation, "It's a Muggle thing. You've honestly never seen someone ride a bicycle? Where do you live, in a tree?"

Alf's eyes got a wild look, as if he'd been deeply insulted and was trying to decide on a sufficiently painful response. Then he just smiled. "Guess I'm a bit off the main line," he said.

"We need to get to Transfigurations, Alf," said Chrys, pulling him toward the West Stairway. "See you later, George."

"Hold up a bit, will you Chrys?" said Alf when they reached the third floor. "I've got to stop in the loo."

* * *

Professor McGonagall knew something was afoot. Half the class looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. Her eyes swept the room, but didn't detect any immediate anomalies. Not entirely pleased, she started reading the roll. About halfway through the 'anomaly' revealed itself. 

"…Gulder..."

"Here." The voice was oddly nasal. The class immediately burst into giggles.

Professor McGonagall rose to her feet like a towering thundercloud. "Mr. Gulder, stand up!"

The class was instantly silent. Professor McGonagall prepared to end such nonsense in this class forever, but one glance at Chrys and she paused while formulating the first syllable. Only years of self-control while dealing with students prevented her from staring slack-jawed at the student standing by his desk. Chrys had a trunk instead of a nose. It was only 15 inches long, true, but it was undeniably an elephant's trunk. Collecting her wits, she addressed the class with a very slight, droll smile.

"I usually begin my first-year classes by warning them that Transfiguration is a difficult, exacting subject, and warning them of the dangers of experimentation. However, this year it seems we have a warning already prepared for us. Mr. Gulder, how did your nose get that unusual shape?"

"I wasn't experimenting, Professor," said Chrys with just a little difficulty. "This was done… for me."

"He was hexed!" cried Alf, "by some Slytherins!" A buzz started among the students.

"IN… THIS… CLASS…" Professor McGonagall wasn't quite shouting, but the effect was instant silence. "…you will _always_ wait to be recognized before speaking. Is that clear?" Each student quailed as her eyes swept the room. "Mr. Tollers, do you have information about Mr. Gulder's condition?"

"Yes, Professor," said Alf in a subdued voice. "Chrys and I were coming in from Flying Class together. I went to the loo, and as I was coming out I saw three Slytherins running away laughing at Chrys. He was just standing there looking… well, looking…" Alf couldn't decide whether to say Chrys looked shocked or stupid. Actually, it was a little of both.

"Yes, yes, we can see what he looked like. Is this true, Mr. Gulder?"

"Yes, Ma'am," said Chrys.

She was expecting more, either in defense or in accusation. _This Guilder is a self-controlled one, that's for sure,_ she thought. "Very well, Gulder," she said, "You are excused to the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey should be able to restore you without much trouble."

"Please, Ma'am," said Chrys, "May I keep it for awhile?"

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows escaped her control and arched in surprise.

"Well I've never had a trunk before," he explained, "and it's rather interesting. May I wait until later to go to Madame Pomfrey?" He curled his trunk the way he'd seen pictures of elephants, and looked at it rather cross-eyed.

Professor McGonagall suddenly had a cough. When she recovered her composure, she said, "I don't suppose the condition of your nose will adversely affect your mind. But let me warn you," she continued severely, "If I detect _any_ nonsense or distraction coming from you, Mr. Gulder, you'll go directly to the infirmary with more than your nose needing attention. Sit in the back of the room." As Chrys moved to the back and sat down, she addressed the rest of the class. "That goes for the rest of you, also. Your attention will remain fixed on the subject of this class, or you will join Mr. Gulder in the infirmary."

* * *

When he went out to the courtyard after class, nearly the whole class followed Chrys. Soon he and his trunk were the center of hilarity. 

"Try this, Gulder! Can you pick up a quill?"

His eyes dancing, Chrys screwed up his face with concentration and leaned down, stretching his trunk toward the bench seat where the quill was lying. By contorting his ears, cheeks, eyebrows, lips, and neck he managed to grasp the quill with his trunk, then he held it up in triumph. Everyone cheered. Suddenly Chrys sneezed and sent the quill five feet into the air. Everyone roared with laughter, none louder than Chrys himself.

Then Alf brought up a cup of water. "Here, Chrys. Can you drink this like an elephant?"

"Oh, yuck!" said Selina St. Cyr, a Hufflepuff. "That's disgusting!" Naturally, the boys immediately egged him on.

Chrys took the cup and put the tip of his trunk into it. Carefully, he began draining the cup into his trunk while the girls squealed and the boys cheered. Then he stopped, and with a wicked gleam in his eye looked around the group. They hushed in confusion until Alf suddenly cried, "Look out! He's armed!"

Everyone fell back shrieking while Chrys ran forward, his trunk out before him like a cannon. Finally, unable to hold his breath any longer, he squirted the water out of his trunk. By suddenly turning his head, he managed to get Alf on the shoulder before stopping and gasping for breath. This was particularly difficult because he was laughing at the same time. As the group reassembled, he managed to say, "St. Cyr's right: it _is_ disgusting!"

"Well, well, well," said a cool and cynical voice behind them. "Look here, MacDougal, the little twit couldn't even figure out how to deal with a simple hex."

The group turned to see three fourth-year students coming toward them. The three were wearing green and silver scarves, but their sneers were enough to tell most of the first-years that they were Slytherins. The trio stopped about four feet from Chrys, imposing in their stance and superior attitude.

"What trash they're letting in nowadays. When I was a first-year, I could have taken that hex and thrown it back at twice the strength! Oh, but look at the poor little Fosterling," he cooed with mock concern, "His nose is still dripping from crying his eyes out!" The Slytherins laughed sarcastically.

"Well, actually," said Chrys brightly, "It's wet from trying to spray water like an elephant. You know, I should thank you. This trunk has been no end amusing: it's the most fun I've had for months!"

The Slytherins' laughter faded, and it was their turn to look surprised. They had never confronted anybody who took a hex like that in stride. Some surreptitious giggling among the other first-years didn't improve their mood. "Well, then," said one, blustering to cover their discomfiture and getting out his wand, "If you're having such fun with the nose, maybe I should add a little something to it."

"And just what might that be, MacDougal?" The fourth-year snapped his head to the left to see Bert walking toward the group, his wand already drawn and pointed at the Slytherins.

"Yes, what might that be, MacDougal?" Priscilla approached from the right, her wand drawn and pointed at the Slytherins.

"Yes, what might that be, MacDougal?" Everyone except Bert and Priscilla looked up to see Mitch Thomas, the Ravenclaw Seeker, hovering on his broom fifteen feet above them, his wand drawn and pointed at the Slytherins.

Bert stopped about five feet away from MacDougal, his wand still drawn. "Now what's this all about, MacDougal?" There was no reply. "Come now, I'm a prefect," Bert said with a slight edge to his voice, "you can confide in me."

"Put down those wands this instant! All of you!" Nobody had any difficulty hearing the voice that regularly refereed Quiddich matches. Madame Hooch strode into the middle of the circle, glaring at the older students. "That means you, too, Thomas," she said, not even looking at him. "Come down here at once."

Thomas landed neatly beside Bert, pocketed his wand and leaned casually on his broom.

"What is the meaning of this? O'Cuinn?" She turned to face the Ravenclaw prefect.

"One of our first-years was being threatened by these three," he said, pointing at the Slytherins. "Priscilla and I were just evening up the sides. They've already hexed Gulder, and were threatening to do worse."

"Already hexed…" she spotted Chrys, stopped mid-sentence, then snapped her focus back to the Slytherins. If anybody thought she was angry before, they quickly found out what Madame Hooch's anger was really like. Despite the fact that she was shorter than almost everyone present, everybody quailed before her wrath. As she paced toward the Slytherins, they retreated before her. "And just what monstrous crime caused you to hex this first-year? DON'T BACK AWAY FROM ME, _STAND HERE!!!_" The three froze in their places while the courtyard echoed and curtains in the nearest windows fluttered in the sonic blast. "MacDougal, explain!"

"This… he was… sneaking about the halls eavesdropping. I just wanted to teach him to keep his nose in his own business… Ma'am."

" 'In his own business'? You're a fine one to teach that." She spun and stepped toward Chrys. "Gulder?"

Since her back was to the Slytherins, Madame Hooch winked saucily at Chrys. Even so, he was petrified. "I… I was standing outside the loo waiting for Alf, Ma'am, when these three came down the hall," he said. Then he turned to the Slytherins and said, "I'm sorry if I bothered you. I really wasn't trying to overhear what you were saying."

Madame Hooch slowly turned to the Slytherins and waited a moment for that to sink in. "A bit too quick with the wand, weren't you MacDougal? In case you're unacquainted with the concept, you've just received an apology. Twenty points from Slytherin. Now shove off, all of you. Come on, everybody," she turned, shooing them away with her hands. "Move along. It's nearly time for dinner." Priscilla started herding the first-years toward the doors to the castle, but Bert and Mitch waited with Chrys and Alf. Bert turned and looked at Chrys.

"He did that to you?"

"Yes," said Chrys, with a grin (somewhat distorted by his trunk). "Isn't it a gas?"

"I didn't really see you until Madame Hooch showed up. This… this is outrageous!"

"Calm down, O'Cuinn," said Madame Hooch. "Don't start any war between Houses this early in the year. It's only a hex and Madame Pomfrey will have him set to rights in no time."

"Oh, but wait 'til you see what he can do with it," piped in Alf. "He'll be the life of any party for weeks."

"That's a fact," said Thomas. "I've been watching for half an hour and I almost fell off my broom laughing. Gulder had everyone in stitches doing tricks with his trunk, and he laughed louder than them all."

"You're a brick, Gulder," said Madame Hooch approvingly. Then she chuckled. "It must've dreadfully annoyed those Slytherins that you were actually having fun with their hex! Well, enough fun: you need to get up to Madame Pomfrey. She may be able to fix you up in time for dessert. Thomas, be sure you return that broom to the shed tonight."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "Directly after dinner."

Still chuckling, Madame Hooch strode off toward the Great Hall. Bert clapped his arm around Chrys' shoulder as they all moved toward the doors.

"You know," said Chrys, "My face muscles are really getting tired." Suddenly he stopped. "No, wait; I've got to show George. He'd never forgive me if I let this happen without showing him. Has dinner started yet?"

"Everyone is heading to the Great Hall now," said Bert. "Who's George?"

"He's my best friend. I met him on the train, but he got sorted into Gryffindor. Alf, go over by the doors and see if you can catch him before he goes in. I'll be over here by this statue. Bring him over, would you, but don't tell him what it's about."

"Right!" Alf sped off toward the doors to the Great Hall, while Mitch pulled Bert over into an alcove on one side of the hall. "Watch this," he said, "It'll be good."

Sitting on the pedestal of a statue, Chris opened the top of his robe and carefully put his trunk inside it. Then he fastened the top of the robe over it. When he bowed his head and held his cheeks in his fists, you almost couldn't tell anything was amiss. He sat there, the very picture of disappointment. Bert and Mitch could hardly suppress their laughter.

Soon Alf and George came running up. "Chrys!" said George, "What happened? What's wrong?"

Only moving his head slightly, Chrys rolled his eyes upward to look dolefully at George. Bert and Mitch nearly exploded, tears running down their cheeks. Immediately George knelt by his side. "Come on, Chrys, buck up. Here, did someone beat you up? What's wrong with your… AAAAHHH!"

Chrys' trunk had slipped out the front his robe and touched George under his chin. George sprang back and fell on his butt as Chrys, Alf, Mitch, and Bert all rolled on the floor laughing. Still in shock, George looked from one to another, torn between shock and outrage. "What's going on here?" he shouted. "What… what happened to your nose??"

Chrys gasped for air, and managed to say, "It's a trunk! Isn't this a gas?" His robe was open now, and the trunk was displayed in all its glory. He raised it and gave a rather weak trumpet before collapsing into fresh gales of laughter. The other three boys were recovering their breaths, and crawled over to George, who was still rather aghast.

"It was a hex," said Alf. "A snotty fourth-year Slytherin got in a huff about something, and put a hex on Chrys. Turned his nose into a trunk."

"Right," said Chrys. "I guess they thought I'd be mortified or something. I really was for a minute or two, but then I realized how funny it was, and I've had a wonderful time ever since."

"Coo," said George, grinning, "I'll bet that frosted their pumpkins. Good on ya, myte!"

"Madame Hooch frosted their pumpkins good and proper. And she was right, Gulder: you did the best thing possible," said Bert, getting up and dusting off his robes. "If you'd gotten mad or upset, there'd be hexes flying all over the place. But come on, you really need to get that taken care of. Didn't you say your face muscles were getting tired?"

"Right," said Chrys. "Which way do I go?"

Mitch shouldered his broom. "I've got to return this to the broom shed. Cheerio, all."

Bert led the other three to the hospital wing, and Chrys demonstrated his prowess with his trunk along the way. Rarely had Madame Pomfrey seen such a jolly group of students show up at the infirmary.


	5. Classes

**Classes**

They all got back to the Great Hall just in time to get some food. After eating, Chrys leaned over to the Gryffindor table (only George and two others were left there). "George," he said, "Can we talk a bit before you head off?"

"Sure." When the others left, George grinned. "Whot's news?"

"Firs' dye, not too bad, cap'n," said Chrys. "Nothin' much t' worry abou' 'ere. You?"

"Wyt 'til yeh get t' Potions," George said. He glanced about the room, then went on more quietly. "It was really creepy. I'd heard that Professor Snape isn't one to cross, and I'll vouch for that. But everything about the class was… just creepy. It's like walking into a Halloween party, except it's for real. It's in a dungeon, and there's all this weird stuff in bottles and canisters on the shelves. I'm going to talk to Dad real hard every time I go there."

"Thanks for the warning. I've got Double Potions tomorrow morning. Any way we can get out of it?"

"I doubt it. Classes for the first few years are rather tightly standardized. But have a go at it, maybe your Head of House will be more flexible than McGonagall."

Chrys grinned. "I think a broomstick would be more flexible than Professor McGonagall. Still, she wasn't such a bad sort in class today. She's strict, but fair. And sharp as a wizard!"

They both burst into laughter at the remark. "Do you suppose her being a witch has anything to do with it?"

"No doubt," agreed Chrys. Then he sobered up. "What are we going to do about Potions?"

"Don't know." Again George glanced around the room. "I wish there were someplace we could go. I don't really fancy the idea of having a pra-… of trying to pr-… (blast!) …of talking with Father in the open like this."

"Right," agreed Chrys. "But there's got to be some out-of-the way spot around here. There's a whole castle, for goodness' sake. Let's keep a lookout. Well," Chrys got up from the bench, "Off to homework."

"I needed that." said George, in an aggrieved voice. Then he winked at Chrys. "G'nyte, myte. Oi'll _remember_ yeh t'morrow in Potions."

"Great word: 'remember.' Good on yeh, cap'n!"

Still trying to think of a place to meet, Chrys wandered up to the Ravenclaw Common Room. He flopped down into one of the brown leather chairs and stared into the fire. After a bit he noticed that nobody was around. He looked around the room, then slapped his forehead. "You forgot about the password!" He just got to the door when he stopped. He turned and looked the room over. It was a very nice room, complete with several comfortable chairs, a fireplace, a couple of tables… H'mmm. There was even an alcove that wasn't directly visible from the doorway. "Oi moight've found us a secret cyve, cap'n," he said to himself, grinning.

The next morning at breakfast, Chrys got a letter from the Gulders. The owls flying in with letters attached to their legs still startled him, but he had to admit it did add a certain personal touch to the mail system. He eagerly opened the letter and read it to himself.

_Dear Chrys:_

_Well, how was your first day at Hogwarts? I know, I know: young boys at school have no time for writing letters home, but if you could spare a moment in the next month or so we'd love to hear from you. What House are you in? Brick was in Ravenclaw, and I was in Gryffindor. How is Zhava adjusting to Hogwarts? Who are your teachers? Is Professor McGonagall still teaching Transfigurations? She's absolutely first-rate, so if you're lucky enough to have her, study well. Are there any new teachers this year?_

_It's awfully quiet about the house with you and Zhava gone, but I've got plenty of activities to keep me occupied and Brick's back at work, so we're not totally adrift. Now study hard, Chrys. We both think very highly of you and have every expectation that you'll do well at Hogwarts. Let us know if there's something in particular we can do to help._

_We love you,  
Aunt and Uncle Al_

Chrys felt a momentary twinge of homesickness, but it was mixed with confusion. Now, officially at least, the Gulders' was his home, but it really wasn't, but it was all he had, but he could almost remember somewhere else… Chrys sighed. He knew that cycle of thinking could go on for hours with no benefit. And regardless of the situation, the Gulders were very decent people. He turned to Alf.

"How can I send a letter to someone, Alf?"

Alf looked at him quizzically. "You just write it and send it. What's the problem?"

"Where can I get an owl? What's the cost? Do I need a particular owl or a particular kind of owl? I've never done this before, you know."

"Oh, sorry; of course you haven't. Hogwarts has an Owlery that students can use. It's free, and you just write your letter, roll it up, tie it to the leg of an owl, and then tell the owl where to deliver it. I'll show you after classes unless it's urgent."

"Let's go after classes. Thanks, Alf."

* * *

Potions was every bit as bad as George had warned him: by the time he left class, Chrys wanted to take a bath. There seemed to be a brooding evil about the classroom that Chrys couldn't quite identify. It wasn't exactly Professor Snape, although he did nothing whatever to ingratiate himself with his students. It wasn't exactly the specimen jars lining the shelves of the dungeon which contained heaven-only-knew-what. It wasn't exactly the fumes and odours that hovered like a miasmic night air in the dungeon. Whatever the cause or combination of causes, Chrys distinctly felt that if the invisible handshake he always felt when using his wand had ever wavered or weakened, he would have bolted from the dungeon. However, the handshake remained firm, even slightly warm, to the point that Chrys hated to put down his wand. He noticed with a little relief that Alf didn't seem too happy about the environs, either. Even Paula wasn't up to her usual criticism for everything wizardly: she was pale with fear. After class, coming up from the dungeon felt almost like being resurrected from the dead. Even so, with the memories of the odours and the specimen jars fresh in his mind, Chrys ate a light lunch that day and spent a lot of time talking to Dad. 

In contrast to Potions, Charms seemed like a party. Not that Professor Flitwick didn't keep order in the class: he did that very well (amazingly well for someone a full 12 inches shorter than any of the students). But he was so energetic, and everything seemed to happen so quickly… and he never once put anybody down. Even when a student did something obviously wrong, Professor Flitwick managed to be encouraging while he corrected the stupidity.

Professor Flitwick was one of the Wand Masters at Hogwarts, and since wands were so important to Charms work, the first exercise was to test each student's wand.

"Attention," he said. "Everybody take their wand in their usual hand, right or left. Now, without saying anything, just wave your wand and make some sort of light. We'll go by rows so everyone can observe and learn, beginning near the windows. Now, on the count of three. First row ready? One, Two, Three!"

It was rather spectacular, even for a group of first-years. Each display was met with murmured compliments and observations, almost like watching fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night. Two students held their wands in a death-grip, and frowning in concentration shook out several sparks of various colours which traveled for several feet before extinguishing. Most pointed their wand upward, and a single beam of light shot up and danced on the ceiling, some even managing to reflect back to the floor. In the third row Peven, a Slytherin, produced a tiny glowing sphere which inflated to the size of a large pumpkin before dissolving into nothingness (he got applause for his effort). Paula, frowning, gripped her wand and produced one spark. In the fourth row, Alf held his wand balanced on end in the palm of his hand, and the entire wand glowed with a pure, silvery light that seemed at the same time both fresh and very, very ancient. In the last row, Chrys repeated what he'd done in Ollivander's shop, and again smiled at the broad swath of blueness studded with tiny stars.

"Chrys!" whispered Alf, "I've never seen anyone make stars before. They're beautiful!"

"And yours," said Chrys with awe. "The quality of your light was so rich, so ancient… it was almost…" He was going to say 'holy', but Professor Flitwick interrupted them.

"Attention, everyone!" he said. "I saw some tolerably good work here, and, of course, lots of work that could use some improvement. I also observed some rather ingenious grips, most of which will be rarely, if ever, used. All of your wands appear to be in good working order, but I am curious about two wands in particular. Mr. Tollers, will you tell us about your wand?"

"My grandfather gave it to me," said Alf proudly. "It's 12 inches of mallorn wood, and the core is a linden leaf."

Most of the class looked puzzled, but Professor Flitwick said, "Ah, yes. That would explain a few things. I didn't think it was one of Ollivander's. That was the light of Telperion, wasn't it?"

Alf smiled bashfully. "Well, a shadow of it," he said. Then he suddenly looked worried and his expression became very closed.

"Very good. And, Mr. Tollers, yours was one of those… less common grips, if I may so call it." The class chuckled.

"Now," continued Flitwick, "it's not often that I see something new, and especially in a first-year class. However, Mr. Gulder, you have shown me a novelty. I've never seen a light pattern like that from a wand before, and it's especially surprising for a first-year. Tell us about your wand."

"We bought it at Ollivander's. It's 12 inches of cedar, and the core is a sliver of iron."

A couple of gasps from around the room made Chrys wonder if he should have omitted that last piece of information. Then he realized that Flitwick would have asked him about it if he hadn't mentioned the core, so he mentally shrugged.

"Iron." Professor Flitwick mused quietly for a second or so, then continued briskly. "Well, as I said, Mr. Gulder, you have shown me a novelty, and that is very gratifying. However, it will have no effect whatever on your grade, so you'd better be prepared to practice as much as everyone else…" and he swept the room with a stern glance "…_every_one else in this class."

They spent the rest of the class practicing basic wand moves. When class was over, Chrys packed his books slowly, hoping to speak with Professor Flitwick.

"Ah, Mr. Gulder," said Flitwick, "I was hoping you'd stop a bit after class. Did Ollivander say anything about that wand?"

"Well, sir, he said it was something of an experiment and he wasn't certain why he kept it around. I'm glad he did, though, because it's the only wand that worked for me. Afterward, Mr. Gulder, my foster father, explained there are some difficulties using iron with magic, and he warned me not to use it until I had guidance here at Hogwarts."

"Very wise of him," agreed Flitwick. "Were you equally wise?"

"Oh, yes sir. Transformations class yesterday was the first time I've touched it."

Professor Flitwick thought for a moment. "Well, I'll mention this to the other teachers, just in case something comes up. You're in the standard course, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. Is it… is it possible to transfer out of Potions, sir?"

Flitwick smiled knowingly. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Gulder. Potions is absolutely fundamental. Now, I know Professor Snape is a bit cold toward most of his students, but he's an excellent teacher. You really will learn a great deal from him."

"Yes, sir," said Chrys, disappointed. "Oh, one more thing, if I may. The brown room that seems to be the Ravenclaw Common Room but isn't: is it alright to use it? I mean, may I meet with some friends there occasionally?"

"Why not just meet in the Common Room?"

"Well, sir, one of my best friends is in Gryffindor. I don't imagine he's allowed into our Common Room, is he?"

"Ah," said Flitwick, "That is a different matter. You're correct on both points: anyone is free to use that other room, and no, your friend in Gryffindor may _not_ come into the Ravenclaw Common Room. The Common Rooms are to be common only to members of their House."

"Yes, sir. And I must say the lock on our Common Room is brilliant. Did you design it?"

"I am flattered, Mr. Gulder," said Flitwick, although he smiled broadly. "No, I believe that Rowena Ravenclaw herself designed that device, and personally, I think it's the best one in the castle. Now, off with you!"

"Thank you, sir."

Chrys was in time to choose his seat in the next class. Alf was already sitting with another Ravenclaw, so Chrys sat next to George. He just had time to mutter "Oi've found us a secret cyve, cap'n" when the teacher entered. Professor Gillooly somehow didn't fit in with Chrys' concept of a teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He was an older man with a shock of white hair that more or less adorned his head, a warm and enthusiastic smile, and a general air of dustiness, as if he occasionally erased the chalk board with his sleeve.

After the first few moments, the words "Absent-Minded Professor" floated into Chrys' mind. Compared with other professors: McGonagall (crisp and focused), Snape (stern and detailed), even Flitwick (logical progression)… in comparison, Professor Gillooly seemed to gallop off enthusiastically in all directions. After five minutes, Chrys gave up trying to take notes, or even trying to figure out what Gillooly was talking about. After ten minutes he doubted that anybody had any idea what the professor was talking about, including the professor.

Suddenly Gillooly stopped and pointed his wand at the ceiling. The light from the windows dimmed, there was a flash of light and a loud clap of thunder.

Nobody batted an eye.

Now his smile was more grim. "Did that light or thunder startle anybody?" he asked. No one responded. Gillooly upped his volume a bit and frowned at George. "I asked a question. Mr. Haldane, were you startled?" Still no one moved.

"While I have your attention," Gillooly continued, "I will point out what should be fairly obvious: you have all been duped. While I was chattering merrily on, I gave you three clues that told exactly what I was doing. Apparently nobody was listening, and now you're all caught in my spell." He paused to let that sink in, then waved his wand in an odd pattern and said, "Finite."

All the students gasped, then looked around fearfully at each other. A _very_ low murmur ran around the room and was instantly silenced when Gillooly cleared his throat.

His friendly smile was back in place as he said, "Well, now, what's one thing we've just learned about Defense Against the Dark Arts? You will be able to reply now. Mr. Gulder?"

"Um... always pay attention, sir."

"Very good. Another way to put it is 'Constant Vigilance.' Miss Kent?"

"You might not recognize you're being put under a spell."

"Case in point, eh Miss Kent? Good. Miss Timson?"

"Wicked people can appear to be very nice." There seemed to be a challenge in her voice. Looking over at her, Chrys could see she was upset.

"Y-y-yes," said Gillooly, as if not sure how to respond. "Not quite the way I might have put it, but the idea's right on target. Any other observations?"

No one could think of anything. Then Alf raised his hand. "If someone you have reason to believe is logical starts speaking nonsense, watch out!"

"Yes! Very good! Five points for Ravenclaw and five points for Gryffindor." Professor Gillooly rubbed his hands in enthusiasm. "Now, quills and paper out, and this time I promise to say something worth writing down."

By the end of the class it was obvious that however dusty and absent-minded Professor Gillooly appeared, in fact he had keen insight and wide experience in his subject. With diagrams on the chalk board and anecdotes from his personal experiences, he outlined the goals for the course. He was friendly, engaging… and dead serious.

* * *

"What a class!" said Alf, as they walked down the hallway. "He really pulled one over on us!" 

"I'll say," agreed George. "I can't wait to get into the really good stuff."

"And he's had so much experience! What did you think?" Chrys asked Paula.

"He's a devil!" said Paula bitterly. She strode on while the others paused in stunned amazement. Then Chrys rushed to catch up with her.

"Wait a minute! Whatever do you mean by that?"

She stopped and glared at him. "Isn't it obvious? It's just what I said in class: wicked people can appear to be very nice. He's even worse than Professor Snape: at least Snape doesn't pretend to be kind and friendly."

George looked at her uncomprehendingly. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?? I suppose you enjoyed having an evil spirit take control of your body? Well I didn't, and I don't think that was just a trivial little prank he pulled on us. I _hate_ this place!"

"But, Timson…" began Chrys.

"And I hate that name!" she cried. "It's not my name! I know they put some spell on me to make me forget my real name and I don't know what my name is, but I know it's _not that_!" With that she stormed away toward the Ravenclaw tower leaving the three boys staring after her.

"She puts a bit of a damper on things, doesn't she?" said Alf at last.

Chrys nodded. "I think I know where she's coming from… but she does rather grate on the nerves."

"Well, let's get on to supper," said George. "No sense letting her spoil our appetites."

"Right," said Alf, but Chrys was thoughtful as they went into the Great Hall. He ate rather quickly, then put two or three slices of bread and some cheese into a cloth. He picked up a glass of water, then said to Alf, "Let me know if there are any announcements tonight, would you? I'm taking these up to Timson."

"Brave fellow," said Alf.

Just outside the Ravenclaw Common Room, Chrys paused and looked at the food he had. _Father, please remove any evil influences from this food, and bless it for Timson. May it nourish and strengthen her. Thanks. _Then he looked at the Lion painting and said, "Veritas". The door appeared, he set the glass of water down and opened the door, then picked up the glass and walked into the Common Room. As he had hoped, Timson was there, but she was quietly sobbing in one of the overstuffed chairs. Chrys walked over to her and set the food on a small table nearby.

"Excuse me," he said gently, and she looked up at him. "I brought you some food. I asked Dad…" he pointed upward "…to remove any evil influences from the food and to bl-…" he had trouble, but the memory charm eventually let him pronounce the word "…b-l-ess it for you."

"Thank you," she said. After a moment, she sighed, and began to eat the bread and cheese. "How can you stand it here? How can you stand losing your family and even your name?"

"I'm not sure," he said honestly. "I guess part of it is the assurance that no matter what they call me, they can't change the real me. That plus the guarantee that Father loves me and will never leave me, even in a place like this."

"That's right," she admitted, "but sometimes I just want to vomit! It's wrong, all wrong!"

"Hey, calm down a bit. You know, it's not a mistake that you're here. Dad wasn't asleep when the wizards won the war. Nobody sneaked in and stole you without his knowing. And we're safe here because of Father. Don't you remember what happened with the ghosts on our first night here?"

She nodded halfheartedly. "Yes, I remember. Thanks, Gulder."

"I'm probably going to get my head knocked off for intruding, but I might as well ask. Is there anything at Hogwarts that you can like? Anything at all?"

Paula started to say something several times, but interrupted herself before anything came out. Finally she looked him in the eye and grinned ever so slightly. "I guess the hallways are nice and wide."

Chrys laughed out loud. "Timson! I would never have guessed you could crack a joke!"

"Well, thanks a lot, Gulder!"

"Please call me Chrys. It's rather like another Name, don't you think?" he grinned.

Timson finally smiled. "Thanks, Chrys. I needed that."

"And since you don't like the name they gave you, may I call you Sarah?" He searched her face for a sign of recognition at his use of her real name, but the memory charm held fast.

"I suppose," she said. "Yes, I guess I like that better than Paula. But we should stick with Paula when _they're_ around."

The door opened and others started coming into the Common Room. Chrys got out his books and started on his homework.

* * *

_Dear Uncle and Aunt Al:_

_Hogwarts is amazing and frightening. My best friend is George Haldane in Gryffindor. I met him on the train, and we hit it off famously. I was sorted into Ravenclaw and my best friend in Ravenclaw is Alf Tollers. His brother went to Hogwarts, so Alf's helping me find my way around. _

_I'm in the standard course. I have Herbology with Professor Sprout, History of Magic with Professor Binns, Flying with Madame Hooch, Transfigurations with Professor McGonagall, Potions with Professor Snape, Charms with Professor Flitwick, and Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Gillooly. Professor Binns set me off for a bit and I think there's something about me he doesn't like, but I can handle him now. I hope he's used to me. I get along alright with most of my classes, but I'm really uncomfortable with Potions. I'm trying to keep an open mind and do my best, but I just feel soiled when I leave that class._

_Thank you both for everything. I appreciate you more and more._

_With love,  
Chrys_

* * *

After supper a few days later, Chrys went up to George in the hallway. "Oi sy, Cap'n," he said quietly, "Care to 'yde out in a cyve fer a bit?" 

George grinned in reply. "Oi'm with yeh, myte. Lead on."

They meandered slowly toward the Ravenclaw tower, allowing other students to busily get to wherever they were going. No one was about when they came to the archway.

"In 'ere, cap'n," said Chrys, walking toward the archway.

George grabbed Chrys' arm and dropped the pirate accent. "But I can't go in there! Common Rooms are only for House members. Are you setting me up, or what?"

Chrys looked at George soberly. "George, I will never set you up." Then Chrys grinned "Besydes, this 'ere _ain't_ the Common Room. It's a fyke!" With that, Chrys walked through the archway, and George followed. Chrys flopped down in an arm chair in the alcove, and George sat on the couch. Chrys said, "It's supposed to look like the Common Room, but it isn't. That's all I can say."

"Good enough for me. Whew! How's your day been?"

"Rough. Yours?"

"Crushing. Let's talk to Dad for a bit."

They spent the next twenty minutes or so quietly talking to Jesus. At first there were some tough situations because of the memory charm. Finally, George broke the tension by chuckling. "You know, it's a good thing he knows what we're talking about because we can't always say it!" They spent the rest of the time laughing through their prayers, most of which started with "This is really rough, but please… please… well, you know." Finally George went back to Gryffindor.

* * *

NOTES: 

Guy Fawkes Night – A British holiday celebrating the failure of a plot to blow up Parliament in 1605. Guy Fawkes was one of the plotters. It is typically celebrated with fireworks.

Mallorn wood – See "The Lord of the Rings" by J.R.R. Tolkien

Telperion – See "The Silmarillion" by J.R.R. Tolkien


	6. Bumps In The Road

**Bumps In The Road**

_Is this what they mean when they say the honeymoon's over?_ thought Chrys dully. It was the beginning of his fifth week at Hogwarts and he found himself looking forward to classes because there was always a professor in control of the situation. Outside of classes, the students were just as spiteful, friendly, vindictive, honest, ornery, helpful… in short, they were just like any group of young Muggles, with the exception that, when they chose, they could actualize their spite more painfully and embarrassingly than Muggles ever could. And they seemed to choose this frequently, at least when Chrys, George, and Paula were concerned. By word of mouth these three had been labeled Christians with a capital sneer, and everyone seemed to take great pleasure in ridiculing them for their beliefs, and in rehearsing failures of the Church in past history and especially in the present as demonstrated by The War. They were very amused by the effect the Memory Charm had in limiting the three whenever they tried to discuss Christianity, another obvious weakness of that religion.

Chrys found this particularly difficult because everything Paula did or said seemed either to invite ridicule or to communicate scorn. She had managed to put off almost every other Ravenclaw, and Chrys really hated having to choose whether to associate with her or with the others, especially since she wasn't particularly nice to him, either. He had most of her diatribes against wizards in general and Hogwarts in particular memorized after the first week. _Oh well,_ he sighed, _you can choose your friends but you're stuck with your family. Dad, can either Sarah or I move in with a different part of the family?_ No response. Resignation. _Well, it was just a thought._

On the other hand, Alf was an absolute brick. He always stuck up for Chrys, he sat with him at meals, walked with him between classes, and generally hung out with him. When sneeringly asked if he were converting, Alf would get this surprised, wild look in his eyes and laugh in such a way that was neither embarrassing to Chrys nor insulting to the other person.

But in classes the students were forced to pay attention to their studies, which was a welcome relief to Chrys. Except for Potions, of course. When he forced himself to be brutally honest, Chrys had to admit that Professor Snape wasn't any harder on him than on the rest of the class. However, Snape did have a genius for implying more disdain than he actually spoke, and he was quick to find whatever annoyed a student the most. It didn't help that Chrys had almost no aptitude for Potions. At least, they never worked for him the way they were supposed to. Chrys had a good memory, and was diligent to follow instructions carefully (even though he hated doing it). On a written test he could always correctly list the ingredients and explain the procedure exactly. But the minute his wand started to stir the potion, it was anybody's guess what would happen. Most of the time nothing at all happened and the ingredients remained a smelly stew, as it had the previous Thursday.

"Ah, yes, your… wand." The sarcasm in Snape's comment was palpable. "Did you specifically ask for a wand that would disrupt most magic, Mr. Gulder? Well, did you?"

"No, sir."

Chrys' simple answers with no defense or argument frequently aggravated Professor Snape's ire (as if it ever needed aggravating). That wasn't why Chrys answered that way: he literally couldn't think of anything else to say.

"No doubt you're very pleased that it does. But all that means is that it's a useless stick, worth about as much as the person holding it. Not even your god could do anything with it. That is supposing, of course, he even exists." Snape glided away amidst a whisper of titters from the other students.

Unfortunately, he was still close enough to hear Chrys' muttered comment to Alf, "And perhaps magic isn't as wonderful as everyone thinks." Professor Snape rewarded Chrys with a 10-minute dressing-down in front of the class, detailing every possible shortcoming about his appearance, his work, his attitude, and his aptitude. Then Snape topped it off by assigning him an extra 12-inch report due the next class.

The next Potions class, everyone was instructed to prepare a simple that would dull the pain of an open wound. The ingredients were particularly noxious and most of the students were coughing by midpoint in the class time. Chrys gritted his teeth and carefully measured the ingredients into his cauldron, then set it on the fire. _Dad, I really hate this. I know you created all of these things, but it's hard to imagine you ever intended them to get mixed together like this. I don't want to go against your creation: please bless these ingredients for what you intended them. I don't care if I fail this class: I just don't want to go against you._ Per instructions, when it began to boil, he took his wand and began to stir the mess, praying all the time. As he stirred, the mixture became clearer and thinner. It seemed to absorb the stench from the other cauldrons leaving an unusual freshness in the air of the dungeon.

"Mr. Gulder! What are you doing?" Snape's voice cracked like a whip from the other side of the dungeon. He swept over to the table Chrys and Alf shared, eyes narrowing in anger. "What did you put into that cauldron?"

"I only put the ingredients on the blackboard, sir," said Chrys, and he listed them off.

"Mr. Tollers?" Snape glared at Alf.

"He's right, sir. We worked together on everything. Everything was exactly the same until he started stirring the potion." Alf held up his wand which dripped with a smooth, thick, greenish slime: the anticipated outcome of the potion.

"Your wand seems to have failed again, Mr. Gulder, but then, the wand picks the wizard. One failure obviously picked another. Pour some of your potion into this flask," commanded Snape. "Perhaps we can test your potion to see if it does anything at all. Mr. Tollers, hold out your arm."

Alf reluctantly held out his arm. Snape produced a tiny silver knife and made a shallow scratch in Alf's arm about two inches long. "You were instructed to mix a Pain Simple, so in order to test it there needs to be a bit of pain." Still holding Alf's arm, Snape pulled a packet from his robes and opened it to reveal some white powder. Alf's eyes grew wider, but Snape just smiled with contempt. "Oh, relax, Mr. Tollers, this is merely some salt." And he poured half of the powder onto the scratch in Alf's arm. Alf's arm stiffened in pain, but he grimly made no sound.

Then Snape grabbed the flask. Chrys' potion was crystal clear and as liquid as mercury. Snape skillfully dropped one drop of Chrys' potion onto the cut in Alf's arm. He smiled cruelly as Alf gasped, but Alf wasn't gasping in pain. The scratch blossomed into the shape of a cross, glowed, and then disappeared. As everyone could see, the scratch had healed completely, not even leaving a scar.

Snape angrily released Alf's arm. "This was supposed to be a Pain Simple, not a Healing Potion," he snarled at Chrys. "Zero for the day." He whisked his wand around Chrys' cauldron, emptying it, then stalked to the head of the class. There were mutterings around the dungeon, but afterwards very few students criticized his wand.

* * *

That had been Friday. Saturday started out with a lecture from Paula. This was followed by an interrogation from nearly every person he spoke with, which went along the lines of "Do you agree with _her_? Because if you do, I want nothing to do with you." Rhiannon Fey was particularly vocal in her interrogation, which happened to be at the breakfast table and well within earshot of a full quarter of the Great Hall. Chrys had retreated to the Uncommon Room (as he called it) to write a letter home. The rest of the day wasn't much better. 

Sunday was even worse. Chrys wondered how it was that non-Christians knew so much about what Christians were supposed to do or not do on Sundays. His natural good humor was severely strained by the constant jibes about Sunday, Christians, Rules, Sabbaths (which some students couldn't even pronounce correctly), and all real or imagined failings of the Church from the 3rd Century to the present. _Whatever did Hogwarts students talk about before I got here?_ A bit of an edge started getting into his replies, which of course goaded the other students into more harassment.

George was another brick, probably because he was receiving as much ridicule as Chrys and Paula. After supper, Chrys and George went to the Uncommon Room. They spent the next twenty minutes or so quietly talking to Jesus. They didn't even ask for anything: they just tried to relax in his presence. It was surprisingly refreshing. Finally George got up to go back to Gryffindor.

Chrys' raised spirits lasted all the way into the real Ravenclaw Common Room. There he found Paula and Rhiannon in a blazing row. It happened to be Rhiannon's turn at bat.

"You are such an arrogant, contemptuous, critical bitch!" stormed Rhiannon. "You think that you know everything, and that we're all just trash! Then you have the _nerve_ to suggest we should all become Christians! If you're a Christian, I'd rather be a... a _Slytherin_!!"

At his entrance, both turned on him and tried to get him to support their "side". When he steadfastly refused to take sides, both bitterly attacked him until he fled to the dormitory.

As he lay on his bed reeling from the emotional rollercoaster of the last few hours, Alf came into the room.

"Chrys, can you show me the light you made the other day in Charms? It was beautiful."

The memory of that first experience both calmed and invigorated Chrys. He sat up on his bed and reached for his wand. Night came on earlier now, so it was already quite dark in the dormitory. Chrys smiled as he held his wand, silently spoke Father's Name, and then swung his arm in a slow, wide arc. The 12-inch swath of brightness shown blue with tiny, brilliant white stars. Chrys didn't recognize any of the star patterns, but Alf just stared, feasting his eyes on the beauty. It lasted nearly 30 seconds before fading into nothingness.

"Beautiful," murmured Alf. "As if fresh from the hands of Varda."

A memory stirred in Chrys' mind. "'When the stars of the morning sang together, and… shouted for joy.'"

"You know about that?" Alf was startled. "Where did you hear it?"

"I read it in… in…," Chrys stammered, partly from searching his memory, and partly from the effect of the memory charm. He sighed in frustration. "Well, I must have read it in my… Book. You know, the one the memory charm won't let me say."

"In the Bible, eh? I never knew…" pondered Alf.

"Would you do your light again? I've never seen anything like it. Professor Flitwick called it the Light of Telperion, right? What is that?"

Alf seemed a bit reluctant as he got out his wand, balanced it in the palm of his hand, and the ancient, fresh, silvery light glowed dimly from the wand. To Chrys the light was similar to the starlight of his own wand, similar to the starlight visible through his window. He felt almost reverent in its presence. On the other hand, Alf became increasingly upset. He shook his head as if denying something, then he finally snatched his wand away with his other hand, threw it on his bed, then hid his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Chrys, but I can't show it to you again. I was a bloody fool to show it in class at all. It's not right... Well, for someone who isn't... I mean... it's just that... Maybe… maybe later on I can tell you a little about it."

"I understand, Alf, a little. Thanks for letting me see it again: it's beautiful."

After a moment they both stood up and got ready for bed. Alone under the covers, Chrys looked out the window at the stars. Disappointment seemed to push him into the mattress. Was he going to be isolated from everybody in Hogwarts? Paula was a girl, George was in Gryffindor, and for all his support, Alf was holding back from him. _"Dad, I feel really rotten. Thanks for not holding back from me, or being in a different House, or being a girl…"_ Even while being depressed Chrys had to grin at the foolishness of what he'd just said. _"Well, you know what I mean. Please make me strong enough and loving enough to survive. G'night."_

But even as he tried to calm down for sleep, Rhiannon's accusation echoed and re-echoed in his mind. _She was basically right, unfortunately, about Paula, but what about me? Am I also arrogant? critical? contemptuous? Oh, of course not._ He rolled over and went to sleep.

* * *

The next morning was a new day. Even if the honeymoon was over, a new day could always be great. While waiting for Alf in the hall, Chrys began studying the lion painting that guarded his Common Room. It was, like all paintings he'd seen at Hogwarts, exquisitely detailed. Almost every hair of the magnificent mane was painted. The eyes were calm, but aware. Chrys tried to read the title, but it was in some language whose flowing script he couldn't understand. Still, something seemed familiar about... about... the lion? the picture? the foreign writing? floating on the edge of memory... 

Suddenly Chrys looked directly into the lion's eyes, and whispered, "Aslan?"

The lion looked back at him. Its eyes twinkled and the muzzle lifted at the sides, smiling slowly. An amazingly deep and resonant voice said quietly, "A friend of mine." The lion winked at him, then rolled over onto its side and dozed off.

Chrys blinked in amazement. Then he grinned. _"Thanks, Dad; I needed that!"_

* * *

He managed to get through the morning with some of his old buoyancy. Chrys (most students had to admit) was brilliant at shaking off an insult and smiling back. On the other hand, Paula spent most of the day in the infirmary being healed of various hexes and spells. This actually suited her rather well: she detested all classes and was proud to have a legitimate excuse for not attending. 

In Flying class that afternoon, Chrys was beginning to get comfortable in the air. He'd never be a Quiddich player, he knew, but he had to admit it was thrilling to fly through the air (practically) on your own. His landings needed more polish, but he felt he was shaping up.

The Ravenclaws from Flying class were walking down the hallway toward Transfigurations when they met Bronach and MacDougal. Bronach grabbed MacDougal's arm and pulled him back in mock alarm. "Watch out," he said, "Here comes God's representative!"

MacDougal laughed, and then strode insolently to the middle of the hallway, blocking Chrys. "Don't worry about him," he said, sneering contemptuously. "He probably won't last much longer than his parents did."

The first-years all froze and looked at Chrys. Trying to sound bored, Chrys said, "Yes, I know my parents are dead. Is that all you want to say?"

"But," MacDougal broke in, grinning fiendishly, "you don't know how they died, do you, _little boy_?" He leaned down so his face was level with Chrys'. "My father killed them," he said with relish. "They were given to him to be his slaves, but your father was so useless that my father killed him the first day and put his head on a fence post with the heads of all the other Muggle trash he'd been given. He kept your mother for a few nights, but she wasn't even any good for _that_, so he killed her and threw her out with the garbage for the pigs!" He licked his lips, then laughed and stood up. He and Bronach strode away, the hall echoing with their laughter.

Chrys stared at the place where MacDougal had been. The other first-years started to gather around him, and Alf put his hand on Chrys' shoulder. "Chrys," he said hesitantly, "Don't let them get to you."

Chrys took a deep shuddering breath, then exploded into movement. The spells that prevented Apparating within Hogwarts kept him in his body, but they didn't affect his running. Before his book bag hit the floor he was out of sight. Hallways sped beneath him as if he were wearing seven-league boots. Stairways dropped beneath him six and seven steps at a time. Walls, floors, ceilings; Chrys was unconcerned and almost unaware of where his feet were placed.

* * *

Alf found Chrys in the Owlery twenty feet above the floor, up on a rafter near one of the nests. Alf looked up, panting from running after Chrys, but not knowing what to say. 

"Chrys…" he started, "Are… are you alright?"

A mother owl, assured that her brood was settled for a bit, got up and walked over to Chrys. He held out his hand toward her, his face devoid of expression, and she started carefully grooming his hand, flicking off non-existent fleas and smoothing his skin with her beak, all the time making soft, fluffy noises in her throat. She moved on up his arm until she could smooth away the tears that crept down his cheeks. Floating into his memory, Chrys heard a voice say, "Joyce, you look lovely this evening." His father always said that as he came home from work each day. Joyce… JOYCE! His mother's name was…

THUNK! The door in his mind slammed shut. "Nooooo!" screamed Chrys, grabbing his hair as if to pull his skull open. "Damn that memory charm!!" The owl, alarmed by the noise, flew up and awkwardly hovered nearby.

Quick as a flash Alf was up in the rafters near Chrys. He grabbed Chrys from behind an upright, using the 10x10 of solid oak between them to steady them both. "Steady, Chrys," he cried. "Get a grip! You'll fall and break your neck!"

Chrys thrashed around aimlessly, unashamedly crying in anger, in frustration, and despair. His mind writhed as he wrestled with the charm. In his mind he was an eagle and confronting him was a monstrous slug. Almost without shape, it curled in front of something, a disgusting but living barrier that blocked… something. It had no features to speak of: no limbs, no head, not even any variation in its skin: just a wall of grayish flesh, repulsive in its lack of detail. Yet for all its monotony it exuded a smugness, a self-awareness and self-satisfaction that aggravated its repulsiveness to the point of nausea. And idiotically slow, its constant oozing seemed to insult the very concept of movement. But the eagle could never get around it. Chrys flew right and left, but however quickly he flew, the idiotic obscenity was always there first, blocking the way.

Wind swirled around them, and there were dark shadows riding the wind, shadows that whispered without sound. If wing or talon brushed a shadow, intense cold stung the eagle, yet so incandescent was his rage that Chrys didn't care. All he noticed, all he wanted was to hurt and destroy that disgustingly alive barrier. Again and again he tore at the monstrosity with beak and talon with no effect. Any rent made in the flesh of the creature sealed itself up again, with no apparent pain or weakening. He mounted higher and higher, trying to fly over the creature, but it simply rose to face him, always slow yet always there first.

The shadows seemed to mock him, yet also seemed to encourage him in a dimly unsettling way. Their voices stoked his rage while at the same time they fed off of it. The slug seemed unperturbed by the shadows, yet Chrys noticed that it seemed to be exerting itself. The higher he flew, the more the creature had to work to block him. Was it a trick of the shadows, or was the creature actually losing contact with the ground in its upward reach? Screaming in rage and victory, he plunged into a dive, hurtling at the base of the slug. The shadows closed in on him.

Chrys' body jerked into a tight ball, somehow lying on his side on the narrow beam, his face buried in his knees, and deep sobs wracking him. Alf managed to keep hold on Chrys' robes and prevent him (just barely) from falling off the rafter. The mother owl settled back on Chrys' shoulder, and began again grooming his head. She was joined by three other owls, until Chrys was completely covered in cooing feathers.

_Tree and leaf!_ thought Alf frantically. _What am I going to do now?_ He wondered if anybody would hear him if he called out for help, and was just about to try when a deep voice below them said quietly, "You can let go of him, Mr. Tollers. I won't let him fall." Alf looked down and saw the Headmaster below them, his wand pointing upward at Chrys. With relief Alf released his hold and Chrys (and the owls) slowly floated downward into Professor Dumbledore's arms. Dumbledore sat on a bench as the owls hooted respectfully, then hopped off and fluttered to the bench next to the Headmaster, who was gently rocking the boy. Alf leaped off the rafter toward the corner, skillfully caromed off a few irregularities in the stonework, and landed lightly on the floor.

"Professor, what's happening? How did you know where we were?"

"Among other things, it's part of my job to be aware when a student is in serious danger," said Dumbledore quietly. "Now I need your help, Mr. Tollers."

"My help?"

"Yes. The Ministry put a memory charm on Mr. Gulder, as it did on most of the fosterling children. Sometimes it is possible to fight against a memory charm so strongly and so deeply that the charm is… well, bent or offset. However, the charm is not broken, and the person gets locked, as it were, in the cracks of the charm. I'm afraid Mr. Gulder is in that situation."

They both looked at Chrys, still curled up tightly and sobbing. "What can I do?" asked Alf.

"Call him," said Dumbledore. "You're a friend: you can reach him more deeply than I. Call him; try to bring to his mind something other than what he was thinking about when he tried to break the charm."

"I think he was thinking about his parents. What do I have that can get around that?"

"Simple things," replied Dumbledore. "Little pleasures, games you play, jokes you've shared. Don't try to make him forget his parents, that's quite impossible and, in fact, quite wrong. Just try to get him to think about good things here and now."

Alf thought for a moment or two, then hesitatingly said, "Chrys… the moon is shining in your window, the window near your bed that has curtains. Can you see her, Chrys? She is calm, she is peaceful. She rides slowly over the night. You can see her from your bed. And soon the sun will be coming up. You always love the see the sunrise. I've never seen him rise, of course, but you have. Come on, Chrys, the sun will rise soon, and you'll have to wake me up or I'll miss breakfast."

The sobbing slowed down, and the small human package relaxed just a little. Dumbledore smiled, and nodded at Alf.

"Chrys, I think Zhava wants to play. Zhava!" Alf turned to the Headmaster. "Let me get Zhava, sir. She always perks him up."

Dumbledore looked inquiringly at the mother owl still at his side, but the owl shook her head in a definite negative. "He needs people now, Mr. Tollers; friends."

"Then let me get Haldane, sir. They're practically Damon and Pythias, those two."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Haldane. He's in Gryffindor, as I recall." The Headmaster gestured with his free hand and a slip of parchment materialized. He gave the parchment to one of the owls, saying "Please find Mr. George Haldane at once. He is in the castle in a classroom somewhere. Deliver this to his teacher." As the owl flew off, Dumbledore looked back at Alf. "Please continue, Mr. Tollers. You're doing an admirable job."

Alf's voice took on a lyrical quality that wasn't quite singing, but also wasn't far from it. "Chrys, let's go climb a tree. You know how much you love to climb. Remember the feel of the bark under your hands, how rough and yet alive it feels? You can feel the life of the tree all the way from its roots to its leaves when you feel the bark. The sun is shining green and gold through the leaves and the wind is caressing the branches. Climb up with me, Chrys. Feel the strength of the tree as we step up the crotches. Feel the life of the tree as we swing from branch to branch. The tree is laughing in the wind with us, Chrys. It says it's trying to ease the weight from its branches, but we won't fall off, will we Chrys? No, we won't fall off because we're not ripe yet!"

Dumbledore chuckled and nodded his approval to Alf. Chrys actually relaxed in Dumbledore's arms, but he didn't open his eyes. Dumbledore kept gently rocking the boy, and Alf reached out to pat his shoulder. Suddenly Chrys' closed eyes wrinkled in pain, and with a silent cry he buried his face in Dumbledore's shoulder.

George ran into the room and stopped short, panting for breath. "I came as quickly as I could, sir. Chrys! What's the matter with Chrys?" Unnoticed by the others, Paula slipped into the room after George, and stood behind the group.

"It seems he fought against the memory charm placed on him by the Ministry," said Dumbledore, "and now things are rather twisted up. He needs to have friends call him back. Mr. Tollers has done an excellent job, but it seems the charm runs deeper than I first thought. Can you reach him, Mr. Haldane?"

Two small stools conveniently appeared across from the bench, and Alf and George sat down facing Dumbledore as he held Chrys.

"Chrys," said George, "Chrys, where are you? Come on back, Chrys."

"Do the pirate thing," said Alf. "You know, that pirate thing you two do when no one's around."

George looked at Alf, then at Dumbledore. Then he looked down at the floor. "I don't think I'm allowed to talk about that," he said quietly.

"Mr. Haldane," said Dumbledore, "We are fighting for a boy's sanity, and possibly for his life. Anything that is good is permissible, and I promise you there will be no retaliation for anything you say, even… even if it doesn't agree with wizarding philosophy."

George took a deep breath, then he grasped Chrys' hand. "Coo, myte. Oi got a terrific plan fer a Nonconformist outryge, but Oi need yer 'elp. Come on, now, this 'ere's the Cap'n speakin'. 'It the deck, myte!"

Chrys relaxed again, and turned his head toward George, but his eyes remained closed. It looked as if he were balancing between waking and sleeping.

"GIT YER BLOOMIN' ARS ORF T'E BED 'R OI'LL FILL YER UNDERS WIT' SOAP AN' MYKE YE SWAB T'E DECKS WIT' YER BUTT!!"

That opened Chrys' eyes. Alf's laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the even rocking in Dumbledore's arms acquired some rhythmic bumps. The beginnings of color came to Chrys' cheeks but his eyes were vacant, and his face was expressionless. Dumbledore's expression was still grave. George looked around helplessly.

Paula walked over to Chrys, making a noise that was part concern and part exasperation. She paid no attention to the startled looks of the other three, but with both hands she held Chrys' head and gently made him look at her.

"Chrys," she said, "Listen, Chrys, he's calling you. Jes-… Je-… Go-…" Annoyance flickered across Paula's face. She had never been as good at getting around the memory charm as Chrys and George. Catching on, George prompted her: "Dad…?"

"Yes," said Paula, "Father says you can come back now. This is all deception and lies, Chrys: don't believe it. No spell in the world is stronger than Father, and you know it. Pra-… Talk to Go-… "

"Remember," prompted George.

"_Remember_, Chrys. Don't believe me, don't believe them: ask Father for the truth. You know his Name, Chrys; and you know he loves you. Dad says to come back now. He's taken care of the past and He's taking care of you right now. You don't have to stay locked up: come out. _Veritas liberabit te_. You are released and freed, in the Name of the Fa-… in the Name…" Paula glared around the room, and finally shook her fist at the roof, shouting, "IN THE NAME THAT YOU WON'T LET ME SAY, BUT THAT _YOU KNOW_ HAS ALL AUTHORITY IN HEAVEN AND ON EARTH!"

Her challenge startled the owls. They launched from their perches and flew about the room hooting in agitation, finally settling back on their perches. Chrys closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled broadly. He relaxed against Dumbledore for a moment, then opened his eyes, sat up, and looked around in confusion.

"Sarah? Alf? George? What are you doing here?" Chrys looked around, then sprang off Dumbledore's lap. "Oh, sir! I'm sorry, sir!"

The Headmaster smiled as he quickly reached out to steady Chrys. "No need to apologize. You've been through some very deep waters just now, and I'm really not all that fragile."

"Are you alright, Chrys?" said Alf. "What happened? Can you tell us?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "It would be good for you to talk this out a bit," he said.

Chrys sighed, and then decided that it was too much effort to editorialize. Professor Dumbledore moved over and invited him to sit on the bench. "I was really hurt by what MacDougal said about my parents. He told me how… how my parents died, sir. The pain became unbearable and I had to get away, so I ran."

"_Ran?_" interjected Alf. "You practically vanished! I've never seen anybody move that fast."

"That's one of my gifts; in magic, you know. I don't know how I got up here. When I came to myself I was up on the rafter. I didn't want to think, I didn't want to know anything, I just wanted to forget. My mind was wandering and I seemed to remember something my father said, something he said when he got home from work. I think… I think I remembered my Mum's name." He stopped and looked at the floor.

Professor Dumbledore put his arm around Chrys' shoulders. "You did, Chrys," he said. Then responding to the startled looks from the four students he continued, "No, I cannot read minds, nor can any wizard. But when something deeply significant comes to a person's mind, especially when that mind is in emotional turmoil, it leaves a sort of image which can sometimes be deciphered. I give this as a gift to you, Chrys: your mother's name was Joyce."

Chrys again hid his face in Dumbledore's robe. "Yes," he said at last, "that was her name. Thank you, sir." After a moment or two he sat up, got a handkerchief from his pocket, and blew his nose. Then he continued. "But then, just as I remembered her name, it was ripped away from me. I guess that was the memory charm. And I went crazy. I was so angry, so enraged— all I wanted to do was destroy whatever it was that took away Mum's name. It seemed as if I had become an eagle, and was biting and clawing at… something disgusting; screaming all the time."

"I was terrified," said Alf. "I've never heard such a sound come out of a person's mouth before. It was unearthly."

"I would guess you came very close to spontaneously Transfiguring," said Dumbledore. "Self-Transfiguration is very advanced magic requiring immense self-control. To attempt such a thing at your age, and in your emotional state, is extremely dangerous. Many people do not survive the experience."

"I never thought about that. I just wanted to destroy… whatever it was. I tried to fly over it, but I couldn't. Then I turned and dove down at what I thought was the base. I don't think I ever got there. The shadows…" and a bit of fear crept onto his face "the Shadows in the Wind... they trapped me, wrapping around me 'til I couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything. I should have been terrified, but I was frozen. They wrapped tighter and tighter until they were tight around my heart inside my body. It was so cold, and so hard to hate. And I had to hate, or I… I would have died."

After a moment, Dumbledore quietly said, "And then?"

"The next thing I remember is a vision of the moon, then a sunrise. And then trees: trees in the sunlight, moving in the wind. I wanted to climb, I wanted to… Alf!" Chrys turned to Alf in surprise. "You were there! You were in the trees, trying to get me to climb."

Dumbledore smiled at Alf. "Well done, Mr. Tollers. You used just the right images to call Chrys back to himself."

"Yes," said Chrys, "But the Shadows wouldn't let go of my heart. They told me there was nothing but hatred in it. I put my hand on the tree, and it withered at my touch. I felt poisonous, accursed."

"That's a lie, Chrys," said Paula, quietly but firmly. "You're not cursed now, and you weren't then. Those were just lies trying to keep you trapped."

Chrys became more lively now. "And then George came along and told me he needed help with a Nonconfor-…" Chrys stopped and looked up guiltily at the Headmaster.

"A Nonconformist outrage, if I understood correctly," rumbled Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eye. "Do not worry about that, either of you. I promised you there would be no retribution, and so far I have not noticed anything that calls for it. Please continue, Mr. Gulder."

"Well, I just seemed to be coming… back. Rather like wading through water that gets shallower. But my heart was still frozen. And when Sarah… er, Paula mentioned Dad and the Truth, I realized I had a choice. So I chose to believe what I knew was truth even though didn't feel true at all. I seemed to... expand from the inside out. Then it was like a bubble burst, and I was here." Chrys looked at Alf, at George, and at Paula, not quite certain of what to say. Then he just said, "Thank you."

"Miss Timson," said Dumbledore, "How did you come to be here? Not that the Owlery is particularly private, but why did you arrive just when you did?"

"I just… knew I ought to be here, sir," she said hesitantly. "I… just knew. I was sitting in class and all of a sudden Chrys popped into my mind, and I couldn't get rid of the thought. I started pra-... talking to Dad, and I got this very strong impression that I needed to go to the Owlery. So I did."

"And one more question, if I may. Where did you learn that spell the finally released Mr. Gulder? I've never heard it before."

"It isn't a spell, sir. I just remember seeing it… seeing it carved…" and here she frowned in concentration. Then she snarled "Flipping memory charm! Uh, sorry, sir. I remember it from somewhere, but I was quoting something I thought Chrys would know, too. It means 'The truth will set you free,' and that was what I was trying to get Chrys to remember. It's from the Bi-... from our Book."

"Very interesting," mused Dumbledore, "and well worth more thought. Your final challenge was also… interesting." He paused, also contemplating the fact that Chrys called to her Sarah, then said, "Well, Mr. Gulder, do you feel recovered now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good: it's nearly supper time. We ought to move along, if you're up to it." Dumbledore stood and gestured at the bench and stools, which disappeared.

"Timson," said Alf, as they moved toward the door. "What were you trying to say, but couldn't? Do you know his father's name?"

"No," said Paula, "I don't know his father. It's another name, but I can't say it. Memory charm, you know," she finished with a sneer.

Dumbledore stopped at the doorway and turned back toward the boys. "I believe Miss Timson was trying to pronounce the name Jesus. Am I right?"

Chrys and George both stared at the Headmaster. "Yes," said George, "But how…?"

For a moment Dumbledore seemed uncertain whether to smile or frown. Finally he settled for a small, wry grin. "I do not have a memory charm on me and I am quite capable of saying any number of forbidden things. Mr. Tollers, 'Jesus' is the name of the God to whom Mr. Gulder, Mr. Haldane, and Miss Timson belong. I strongly suspect that it was his intervention which finally restored Mr. Gulder. Shall we go down to supper?"

* * *

NOTES: 

Varda – See "The Silmarillion" by J.R.R. Tolkien

"When the stars..." – See Job Chapter 38, Verse 7; the Bible

Aslan – See "The Chronicles of Narnia" by C.S. Lewis

Damon and Pythias – friends in Greek mythology. Their friendship was so strong that they each offered to die for the other in a criminal court case.


	7. Assembling A Team

**Assembling A Team**

The five Slytherins watched Paula stalk away into the castle, barely controlling their anger because of the prefect standing nearby. When the prefect left the area, they still sat on the steps fuming.

"Smarmy, sneering, arrogant little twit!"

"Thinks she knows the answers to the Universe."

"Bet she can't even mix up a porridge, let alone a decent potion."

"We ought to push her face into it once for all."

After a moment, Bronach spoke up quietly. "I'll bet we could."

When the planning was done, and they got up to leave, Bronach said, "Right. Now we'll meet at midnight in the Common Room on Thursday night, got it?" They all grinned, and then left in different directions.

* * *

It is usually the case that when the objects of ridicule don't retaliate, the game gets old rather quickly. This was true for Chrys and George, and even to some extent for Paula. With a lot of concentrated effort, and a lot of prayer support from each other, they all regained much of their natural good humor by the end of the week. Even Paula seemed to have relaxed a little, at least where Chrys and George were concerned. Their situation was actually helped by the widespread knowledge of MacDougal's vicious attack on Chrys, and even though nobody except Alf, Paula, and George knew what happened to Chrys, the fact that he survived and recovered from the experience gave him a good bit of character in the eyes of the other students. Also, the fact that MacDougal had been called into the Headmaster's office two days afterwards was not lost on the student body. 

It was Friday evening, and Chrys and George were going to the Uncommon Room when they came upon Paula sitting on a bench in the hallway. She looked as though she were trying hard not to cry.

"Sarah, are you busy right now?"

She started defensively, then relaxed a bit when she recognized the two. "What's up?"

"George and I are getting together to talk with Father, you know?" Chrys pointed upward and grinned, "and I thought you might like to join us."

"Where are you going? Won't you get caught? How do you get away with it?" Hope started to blossom in her eyes.

"I asked Professor Flitwick if I could use the Uncommon Room; you know, the room that looks like the Ravenclaw Common Room, but isn't? Nobody ever goes in there, so we use it to get away from everyone. There's a large alcove that's out of sight of the door, and we don't exactly tell anybody what we're doing, so… we just do it. Come on, won't you?"

"I'd love to! I've felt so cut off this past month!" She jumped up and the three of them walked on toward the Ravenclaw tower. Soon they were in the alcove which was actually the better part of the room, and had several floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall, and a tall window on the opposite wall.

"I thought your name was Paula," said George. "Is Sarah your middle name?"

"No, at least, I don't think so. Chrys came up with it."

Chrys shrugged. "It seemed to fit. Let's talk to Dad."

It's remarkable what a change can happen in twenty minutes' time, even when you can't always talk fluently. Sarah was very annoyed with the memory charm at first, but eventually she started to relax. And there's no denying that the idea of getting away with something that was probably forbidden added a distinct relish to the situation for all of them.

After a bit, she glanced up at the bookshelf opposite her chair. Then she looked intently at one of the books. "Look!" she said with surprise, getting up and pulling out a book. "Look! 'Confessions' by St. Augustine!"

Chrys and George scrambled over to the bookshelf, bringing a candle with them. Not all the books had legible titles, but they were delighted at some that they recognized.

"Thomas Aquinas!"

"John Bunyan!"

"Dorothy Sayers!"

After a moment of stunned delight, George said, "Thank you, Father. Thank you for your astounding ability to provide help… anywhere!"

"Sarah, you're brilliant!" said Chrys. "I never even thought to look at the books. I'll wager some of these books quote whole chapters from the Bi-… the Scr-… well, you know."

"It's like streams in the desert, like an oasis. Can we take them with us?"

George shook his head. "I say leave them here. After all, they were here already, and if anybody found us with these books elsewhere in the castle, they'd probably confiscate them."

* * *

Chrys was in a courtyard, frowning at his Charms homework. It was a fine November afternoon, probably the last good weather to be expected: cool, but sunny. Upper classmen were at Hogsmeade, and everyone else was somewhere outside on the grounds of the castle– except Paula, who seemed to spend all of her spare time in the Uncommon Room. Zhava was scurrying about within the full extent of the leash-charm and having a wonderful time. Chrys was still frowning. _I'm just not getting it,_ he thought. He heaved a sigh and closed his book. Then he noticed that Garnic Peven, a first-year in Slytherin, was at the other end of the courtyard. _It can't hurt to try,_ Chrys said to himself, and he got up and walked over to Peven. 

"I say, Peven, I'm just not getting this Charms assignment. Could you give me some help?"

Peven looked at him suspiciously. "Why should I help you?"

"You're the best in our class and always have been. You obviously understand Charms inside and out, so I thought you'd be the best to explain it."

"Is this going to turn into what you people call 'witnessing'?" Peven nearly spat the word out.

"Not likely," said Chrys. "I'm the one who needs the help here. Will you help me?"

Peven paused, still uncertain. Then he said, "Well, what do you want to know?"

"It's this binding charm," said Chrys. "I do fine with the leash-charm on Zhava, and it seems that the binding charm ought to be rather along the same lines, but for the life of me I can't get it to work. What am I missing?"

"Zhava?"

"She's my ferret. Zhava! Come!" he called, then he gestured to shorten the leash-charm. Zhava flowed down the tree she'd been in and scampered over to the two boys. They both knelt down and Chrys gave Zhava a tidbit from his pocket. She started climbing into Peven's lap.

"Zhava, no!" Chrys reached out to retrieve her, but Peven petted her gently. "It's alright," he said. He almost grinned, but caught himself. He tried to affect disinterest, but he finally gave up and grinned, saying, "She's not so bad, I suppose. Here." He handed Zhava to Chrys. "What's the leash-charm you use?"

"Madame Rowan at the Magical Menagerie taught it to me." Chrys demonstrated the hand gesture.

"Well, there's your problem," said Peven loftily, "That's an _anima restricti_ charm. Almost any idiot can work it: you don't even need a wand. But it's only good for small animals, and it only limits the area that the animal can run around in. The binding charm is quite different."

After about twenty minutes, Chrys finally began to get a handle on the binding charm. It was a lot more difficult than the leash-charm, but Peven's explanation cleared up the confusion. When Chrys was finally able to bind the pages of his book so they couldn't be opened, Peven admitted he'd "made a good start."

Chrys was enthusiastic. "This is brilliant. You're as good as Professor Flitwick, and lots easier to understand."

"Of course, now you need to know how to undo the charm."

"Don't you just reverse the movement?"

"Hah! You weren't watching Flitwick closely enough. Watch now and tell me the difference." Peven moved his wand slowly in a pattern, then in a different pattern.

"It's just reversed."

"Don't be an idiot, Gulder," said Peven, not unkindly. "If it were reversed it would look like this." He sketched the movement in the air, and then reversed it. "That's a reverse; _this_ is what I did. Now what is it?" Peven sketched the movement, and then the counter-charm. Chrys looked mystified.

"It's the mirror image, Gulder. There's all the difference in the world between a reverse and a mirror image. You've got to grasp that or you'll never get anywhere with charms."

"Oh, left-handed instead of right-handed. No wonder I've been lost in the woods. Here, see if I've got it." Chrys bound the pages of his book again, then worked the counter-charm.

"Well, you got by because you're working on a simple inanimate object, but your counter-charm needs a lot of work. The mirror image has to be just as exact as the original, and yours is rather wobbly. The more complex the object you've bound, the more exacting your counter-charm has to be. You need practice."

"Rather. I say, could I use my left hand?"

Peven was momentarily stumped. "I've never heard of anyone doing such a thing, but I guess... it might work. Why not give it a try?"

Chrys bound the pages of his book again, then switched his wand to his left hand and carefully sketched the mirror movement. Nothing happened, and the pages of the book stayed firmly bound. "Well, now we know," said Chrys, unbinding the book with his right hand.

"Here," said Peven, "let me have a go at it." He bound the pages moving his wand so quickly that Chrys could hardly follow it. Then he switched his wand to his left hand and held it backwards, with the point aiming back toward his elbow. Carefully, he sketched the mirror movement with the grasp end of the wand. When he was satisfied, he flipped the wand around and did the mirror movement with his left hand. The pages of the book relaxed and stirred in the breeze.

Chrys applauded. "Brilliant! Are you ambidextrous? Your left hand moved as smoothly as your right."

"Well, not exactly," said Peven, blushing slightly. "Oh, alright, I'll out with it. Last summer I did something pretty stupid, and ended up getting my right arm broken. Mum and Dad were so annoyed that they wouldn't heal me with magic. 'Garnic Peven, if you're going to be as stupid as a Muggle...' (Sorry Gulder, but that's what they said)... 'then you can jolly well get healed like a Muggle, and we hope you learn a lesson from it.' So they set the bone and then wrapped it in a cast by magic, and there I was for the rest of the summer. I got to where I was pretty good doing things with my left hand, but I honestly never thought to try using my wand. It was grim: an entire summer with no magic!"

"It must have been harder for you having grown up with magic all along. Did you do much before you got to Hogwarts?"

"Just the usual things about the house. Mum and Dad didn't want me learning bad habits, but they were rather good teachers themselves, so I guess I'm a little further along than some. How about you? When did you find out you have magic?"

"When I was six, but I never mentioned it to anybody. Magic wasn't considered a particularly good thing in… my family… I guess."

"Do you… sorry if I'm bothering you… but do you remember what happened?"

"Oh, it's no bother: they let me remember that sort of thing. I was in a tree and the branch I was on broke, but instead of falling I found myself safe and sound in a tree some twenty feet away. That was when I really knew it was magic."

"Wow, that was like Apparating," said Peven, impressed. "Apparating is very advanced."

"What's it called?"

"It's Apparating. The opposite, of course, is Disapparating, and it means disappearing in one place and appearing in another."

"Oh, like teleporting, right?"

"Like what? What in the world is 'teleporting'?"

"It's what you just said: disappearing from one place and appearing in another. It happens in science fiction stories all the time, only usually it's done by a machine."

"Done by a machine? Weird! I think I'm beginning to see what it must be like for you here at Hogwarts. Bit of a culture shock, eh?"

"Culture shock? It's like I've been dropped from another planet. But I think I'm getting some bearings at last. And part of it's been great fun, like the elephant trunk."

Peven was startled. "The elephant trunk?"

"Yes, didn't you hear about it? Oh, that was the best!" crowed Chrys. "I've never had such fun in my life! I do hope we learn how to do that sort of thing in Transfiguration."

"But… but that was a hex!"

"Well, yes," said Chrys, calming down, "And I'm sorry about that part of it. That seemed a little…" unsure of how Peven would react, Chrys decided not to finish the sentence. "But if I'm going to be hexed, I might as well enjoy what I can of it, right?"

"Oi, Chrys!"

They turned and saw George running toward them. "Come quick! The giant squid's at the surface, and I think it's feeding!"

Chrys and Peven grabbed their bags and immediately ran after George. They ran down the hill toward the lake, stopping a respectful distance from the shore. The huge body of the squid lay just under the surface of the water, one idiotically huge eye pointing in their direction. But even the body of the squid was dwarfed by the massive tentacles. They reached almost from shore to shore, and were slowly and methodically scooping seaweed toward the mouth. Once in a while, almost as if the squid were stretching after a nap, a tentacle would arch up into the sky and then relax and fall thunderously into the water to the cheers of the older students and screams of the younger ones watching all around the lake.

"Astounding!" said Chrys. Zhava climbed up onto his shoulder for a better (and safer) view.

"Look at the size of that thing!" said Peven. "I wouldn't want to be around when it finishes the salad and starts fancying some meat."

George looked around. "Oh, hullo, Peven," he said. "Sorry I didn't notice you before. I was so excited about the squid."

"Peven was helping me with Charms. He's brilliant!" said Chrys.

"You should see him in Transfigurations," said George. "Top of the class."

Peven actually smiled at the combined praise. He reached out his hand to shake and said, "Call me Garnic."

* * *

"Are you going to just look at that thing for the whole class time?" Alf seemed a bit annoyed. 

The assignment in Transfigurations was to change a pencil into a feather. Most of the class was busily waving their wands and pronouncing the spell. Most had indifferent success. Even Alf had only managed to get his pencil to change from yellow to white. But Chrys hadn't even said anything: he just stared and studied his pencil.

"No," he replied distantly. Then he seemed to make up his mind. He picked up his wand and waved the prescribed pattern a few times. Finally, he looked at his pencil, waved his wand, and pronounced the spell. The pencil turned white and slowly sprouted into a feather. He turned and smiled at Alf.

"How did you do that? I did everything you did."

"Apparently not quite everything, Mr. Tollers." Professor McGonagall came over to their desk. "A very good beginning, Mr. Gulder. Perhaps you overlooked one detail?"

Chrys looked at the feather, then grimaced in embarrassment. At the end of the shaft the lead of the pencil still protruded. The class had stopped practicing and were all looking towards Chrys.

"Even so," continued McGonagall, "you were one of only two students who even came close to achieving the transfiguration. Do you know what you did that was different from what Mr. Tollers did?"

"I think so, Professor McGonagall," said Chrys. "It's something I learned from St. Cyr."

"Ah, the other successful student. And just what did you learn from her?"

"I learned to study the object to be Transfigured. It seems to work better when I have a very clear and complete idea of what it is that I'm changing."

"Very good, Mr. Gulder." She turned to the others. "Perhaps the rest of you will remember that I said something along those lines myself."

_That's __exactly__ what she said!_ wrote Alf on a scrap of parchment where Chrys could see it. Chrys' eyes widened ever-so-slightly in mortification.

"Practicing the wand movement before your initial attempt is also a good idea for beginners. Would you care to add anything to Mr. Gulder's observation, Miss St. Cyr?"

"Yes, Professor. You also said that we must have a very clear and complete idea of what we're trying to Transfigure the object _into_."

"It is refreshing," said Professor McGonagall to the class in general, "to find at least two students who actually listen to what's being taught. Five points each to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. In addition to the homework assigned at the beginning of class, the rest of you will turn in a 12-inch parchment giving a detailed description of a pencil and of a feather. The parchment is due next session. Are there any questions? Yes, Mr. Gulder?"

"Well, I'm not exactly certain how to ask… I've read the lessons in the book carefully, and they seem to gloss over one point. The book is very clear on how to do Transfigurations, but it never answers the question: Why would anyone _want_ to Transfigure anything?"

From the blank, uncomprehending stares came from almost everyone in the room one would think he had asked "Why would anyone want to breathe?" McGonagall was the first to recover.

"Unfortunately for that particular question, Mr. Gulder, this is not a class in philosophy. The goal of this course is to ensure that whenever and for whatever reason you decide to Transfigure something, you do it correctly without injuring yourself or anyone else. If you want to pursue this question on your own, I'm sure that Madame Pince can direct you to other discussions on that topic. Are there any other questions? Very well, class dismissed."

When they got out into the hall, Chrys went over to the group of Hufflepuffs. "St. Cyr! I hope you don't mind what happened: I didn't really mean to hold you up in front of the entire class like that."

"Well, I guess I don't mind being compared to Professor McGonagall, although I hope I'm never as blunt about it as you were."

Chrys hid his face in his hands in mock embarrassment while everyone laughed. Alf said, "You certainly put your foot in your mouth that time, mate."

"About up to his knee, I should think," chuckled St. Cyr. "But he did Transfigure his pencil into a feather. And I'm still amazed at how you turned the tables on those Slytherins about that first hex. You're a good one, Gulder."

'Solid' was the best word to describe St. Cyr. She wasn't quite fat, but she was very… solid. Her rich brown hair was straight and unimaginative on its own, but she always did it up neatly. Her full face had room for a wide smile and two large, brown eyes which, for all their 'solidity', frequently sparkled in fun. Chrys found her easy to like.

"Call me Chrys," he said to her, "I only hope all hexes are as much fun as that one."

Her smile dropped. "They're not, Chrys," she said stiffly, as if reminded of something very unpleasant. Then she relaxed again. "Call me Selina."

They all started moving down the hallway, and after a few steps, she turned and said, "Chrys, whatever did you mean 'Why would anyone want to Transfigure something'?"

"Yeah," said Alf, "That's about the dumbest question I've ever heard."

Chrys shrugged. "Just what I said. If I've got a perfectly good pencil, why would I want to change it into a feather?" He noticed that Paula was listening, but, for a mercy, did not join the conversation.

"But suppose you needed a feather," said Alf.

"If I need a feather, why don't I get a feather?" Chrys fished a pencil out of his bag and held it up. "Maybe there's a reason for this to be a pencil. If I change it into something else, just what am I messing around with?"

"Sounds a bit cosmic, don't you think?" asked Selina. "It's only a pencil, you know."

Alf and the others snickered, and even Chrys smiled. "You're right, Selina," he said, "It's only a pencil. I guess I'm not too bothered about Transfiguring _things_. But next week we start working on small animals. That bothers me."

"So we change a mouse into a teacup. What's the big deal?"

"And how is that different from just killing it?"

Selina stopped suddenly. "But… you don't… I mean, it doesn't _kill_ it…"

"So the mouse is still alive, even though it's a teacup? Do you suppose it's comfortable being a teacup? Can it still see? Can it _breathe_? And what if someone pours boiling water into it? Do you suppose the mouse enjoys that?"

Even Alf looked doubtful at that.

"Now don't get me wrong," said Chrys, "I'm not one of those loonies who think we should never kill any animal and we should all eat dirt and bean curd… bleahhh!" The general atmosphere lightened significantly. "But I do think it's a good idea to discuss once in a while just when it would be _right_ to Transfigure something, and especially when it would not. That's what I was trying to get at with Professor McGonagall."

Selina looked very thoughtful as they continued down the hallway. _Bother!_ thought Chrys. _Have I messed up again? And Dad, please, PLEASE don't let Sarah bludgeon her way into this conversation._ When they got to an intersection the Hufflepuffs turned toward their dormitory. Before she left with them, Selina turned to Chrys. "I can almost see what you're getting at, Chrys, but it's more than I can think about just now. Don't stop asking questions." She grinned at him and added, "Perhaps I've got some spade work to do, and it's always interesting to dig into a different pile of compost."

* * *

Another week passed, and routine settled comfortably around Hogwarts. Chrys hardly ever got lost any more, and was able to think of other things while walking from here to there. 

Come to think of it, he hadn't been in the Uncommon Room for awhile. _Well, I guess that means I'm settling in,_ he thought smugly. _No sense hanging about the infirmary if you're not sick._ Chrys turned a corner and noticed a silvery shimmer at the other end of the hallway. Two of the ghosts were talking together. One of them noticed Chrys, turned abruptly away, but then turned back to him. As he approached, Chrys recognized the Bloody Baron.

"Well, good evening, young sir," said the Baron tightly, but with a smirk on his face. "Nice to see you're blending in so well here at Hogwarts." Then he and the other ghost walked quickly through a wall leaving Chrys alone in the hallway.

Now why did that seem odd? Was something missing? Of course, this was the first time one of the ghosts had actually spoken to him since… well, ever. For some reason the castle ghosts seemed to avoid him. He almost stopped, but then Chrys remembered a report for Transformations and quickly went on to the Library.

An hour later Madame Pince closed the Library, and Chrys returned to his Common Room. He finished his report, then played gobstones with Alf and Priscilla. He was pleased that he was getting along with Priscilla rather well. It was so nice not to be in the middle of an argument every time he met someone.

"I hear you're coming along with Charms, Gulder," she said.

"Yes," he grinned, "I'm beginning to catch on a bit. But I'm still practically worthless at Potions."

Priscilla shrugged. "You're probably better than you think. Snape never lets anybody think they're doing it right unless they're in Slytherin. Looks like we'll make a decent wizard out of you yet. Well, see you tomorrow."

As she left, Chrys felt unsettled about her comment, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Alf picked up the gobstones and said, "I'm going up to bed; it's been a hard day."

"I've got to read another chapter in History. Be up in a bit." He settled into a chair and tried to focus on reading but his mind seemed to be completely full of fog, agitation and apathy sloshing around together. Finally he closed the book and looked at the clock. It was a good forty-five minutes before curfew, so he left to roam the halls a bit. That sometimes settled his mind, but not this time. Soon he found himself back in the Ravenclaw tower.

"Chrys, can I talk to you about something?"

Chrys was just about to give the password to the Lion when he saw Sarah standing in the Uncommon Room. She seemed to notice his hesitation, and said, "I promise not to get angry or judgmental… Please…?"

As he went into the Uncommon Room and sat in a wingback chair by the fire, Chrys resigned himself to another lecture about how terrible everything was at Hogwarts. He could tell she was a little agitated, but he didn't particularly want to make it easier for her.

Finally she took a deep breath. "Chrys… no, first I want to say that you're an absolute brick. I rather envy you that you get along with everybody."

Suddenly Sarah started crying. Chrys stared at her, having no clue as to what was happening. This was not anything he anticipated. Then the most unexpected thought imaginable jumped into his head. _She's going to tell me she's in love with me! What am I going to do??_

Sarah wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and said in frustration, "No, no! It isn't supposed to be about me! This is all wrong…" She looked up at Chrys. "I'm sorry, Chrys. I don't know what's happening. Just… just forget about that. Let me start again." She took another breath, and Chrys mentally held onto his hat wondering what would happen next.

"Chrys, you know how I feel about Hogwarts and about magic. I'm not going to preach at you again, but I want to… ask you about something I've noticed. And I'm trying _very_ hard to be fair about this." She paused again. "Do you remember when we first got here? The castle, the ghosts, magic everywhere… it was enough to frighten anybody, especially a Chr-… a Nonconformist. And by the way, thanks for teaching me that label." They both grinned, and Chrys relaxed a bit. Then Sarah continued. "The first few days at each class, I remember you seemed to walk around on eggshells. We all did. Was it really like that, or was I just imagining it?"

"No, you're right. I was awfully nervous the first week or so. But I guess I've gotten used to it now."

"Well, that's what I wanted to ask you about. Do you… do you ever _think_ about, or _remember_ about, what we're learning here? No, don't answer yet. In fact, you don't ever have to tell me about it. Just think about it. Whether magic itself is good or bad or neutral, we're still in a fallen world, and eventually we're going to answer to Father about what we do here. I just want to remind you to stay in touch with him." She seemed to have more to say, but instead she sighed, then said, "Was I gentle enough?"

Chrys balanced on the edge of a decision. Out of habit he had already marshaled up any number of declarations and assurances. Of course he "_remembered_" about his classes: he talked with Father every day…

With me, or _at_ me?

He slumped back into the chair, scowling to himself. _Oh, c'mon! It's not that bad. At least… well…_ Excuses tripped over one another in their haste to just explain… to rationalize… to justify… to –

He mentally took a breath. _OK, I'm covering up. You're right and I'm wrong._ (Extra scowl for punctuation. After all, you can't really say 'Darn it!' to Father, can you?) He was embarrassed by his reluctance, but honesty made him admit that Sarah was right: he had become a lot more comfortable at Hogwarts. He had almost stopped thinking about magic, stopped asking why anyone should _want_ to change a pencil into a feather, or levitate items. Was that what the Bloody Baron meant, that he was blending in so much that the ghosts didn't shine anymore when they got near him? Was Priscilla correct: were they making a wizard out of him? And, in the really long run, just what was he going to do with this training? Would it help him become more like Father? Come to think of it, when was the last time he spoke with Father and actually waited for a reply?

Someone quietly said "Veritas". Chrys glanced up to see Sarah vanishing in the open doorway. _OK, Father,_ he said to himself, _I've got some work to do here._ He settled comfortably into the wingback chair, gazed at the fire in the fireplace, and started to remember Who he was talking to. _O Lord Father; creator of earth, air, fire, and water, and author of the Periodic Table; You created the heavens above and every star in the sky, You manage the wind and direct the storms, You built the storehouses of hail; You created the earth, You made the rocks hard and the soil fertile, You engineered the mountains and…_

Something in his lower abdomen bubbled noisily. Chrys broke into laughter. "And bubbles! You invented bubbles! How could I forget how much fun You are?"

Fifteen minutes later Chrys walked out of the Uncommon Room and faced the portrait. He was about to say the password when he paused and looked directly at the Lion. "Excuse me," he said respectfully, "but if Aslan ever visits you here, I'd like to greet him." Amusement flickered briefly behind the Lion's solemn visage and Chrys heard a deep rumbling purr that might have been assent. The Lion made no other comment or gesture, so after a moment Chrys said the password and walked into the Ravenclaw Common Room.

Paula was sitting by herself (as usual) at one of the tables doing some homework. She looked up nervously as Chrys walked over to her.

"Thank you, Paula," he said, "You were right: what's the use of being a Nonconformist if you're indistinguishable from the rest of the world? I've talked it over with Father, and I'm going to be more careful from now on. Please tap me again if you notice anything like that: we all need all the help we can get. And by the way…" Chrys smiled brightly at her. "You were gentle enough. I realize it must have been quite a strain for you, but I do appreciate it."

Relief and indignation did an interesting dance across her face. Finally she broke into a rueful chuckle. "OK, I deserved that. _Mea culpa!_"

Chrys glanced around quickly. "Careful!" he warned, "You know how Latin works around here. A simple phrase like that might start everyone in the room confessing!"

Paula's smile sharpened and her eyes widened with a tinge of malicious glee. "Let it!"

* * *

_Dear Aunt & Uncle Al:_

_The past three days have been miserable. It seems that everything I say annoys whoever I'm speaking with. Professor Snape has surpassed himself in nastiness. I know I'm not good at Potions, but hardly a class goes by that he doesn't belittle me in front of the whole class. I suppose I'm doing a favor to the rest of the class, but it's awfully tiresome always being the lightning rod._

_Alright- on to better news. I'm making more friends here at Hogwarts. One of the other students, Garnic Peven of Slytherin, is brilliant at Charms and he's helping me along immensely. Then there's Selina St. Cyr of Hufflepuff. She and I are at the top of our class in Transfigurations. And, of course, Alf and Paula and George are absolute bricks._

_Speaking of Transfigurations, an interesting question came up in class last week. The question was "How does one know when or when not to Transfigure something?" Professor McGonagall didn't answer it directly: she said that it was a philosophical question and was outside the goals of the class. But it seems to me that this is a very practical question. What do you think? In particular, what are situations when one should definitely not Transfigure something?_

_I'm looking forward to the holidays. I can't wait to meet you at the train station._

_With much love,  
Chrysophylax_

* * *

"Have you seen 'Pilgrim's Progress' lately? I thought it was on the third shelf, but I can't find it." 

"Well, no," said Chrys slowly. "You know, Professor Flitwick said anybody was allowed to come in here. Maybe someone else is reading it."

"Or hiding it!" Sarah snorted. "Rhiannon to do something like that, just to spite us."

"Well, maybe it'll show up again," said Chrys, carefully dodging that topic. "Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"Yes, but I guess I'll have to dig it out of Aquinas myself."

They both settled down to reading again, but Chrys kept wondering if someone were spying on them. They hadn't been excessively secretive in using the Uncommon Room, but they did rather want to keep it to themselves. So far they hadn't seen anyone else in it, but there were many hours of the day and night when neither Chrys nor Sarah nor George were anywhere near the room.

* * *

_Dear Chrys:_

_I know just what you mean about rotten days. I remember what seemed like weeks on end at Hogwarts where nothing I did was right. I'll offer you the same advice my father sent to me: Buck up, you'll get through it soon enough. I know that may not seem to help much now, but we have every confidence in you, Chrys. Keep up the good work and just plod through the difficult times._

_As to your question about Transfiguration: I must say, you do come up with good questions! Thea and I discussed it for some time, and it was a very enlightening discussion. You will remember that things are rather stable around our house: we don't usually go Transfiguring this into that just for the fun of it. We sort of keep it in store for emergencies, and usually an emergency to help someone else. It seems to us that if you follow that principle, you won't go too far wrong. If you discuss this with other friends or teachers at Hogwarts, we'd be interested in hearing what you come up with._

_We look forward to seeing you soon._

_Your affectionate  
Uncle Al_

* * *

NOTES: 

Garnic – of French extraction, pronounced "GAR-nee"

Mea culpa – Latin: "I am guilty"


	8. Line Upon Line

**Line Upon Line**

Chrys sat at a table in the Great Hall, staring blankly at the open book in front of him. _Who would have thought that living in an enchanted castle could ever be boring?_ It was only 9:00 in the morning, the second day into the Christmas holiday, and eleven more days stretched before him, a seemingly empty chasm until the other students would return for the next term.

He remembered his disappointment when the Gulders had written that they had sudden business come up requiring them to travel, and would he mind terribly staying at Hogwarts over the Holidays? Of course he'd responded that he didn't mind, but all the same, the feeling of abandonment hovered over his shoulder, especially after most of the other students had left.

His eyes drifted over the books before him. Soon he noticed that his eye was tracing a pattern on the cover of one of them, in and out, over and under, all the way around, back to the beginning.

Suddenly interest awoke in his mind. This was a Celtic knot pattern! Chrys had spent almost an entire summer one year learning how to construct these mesmerizing combinations of mathematics and art. Boredom evaporated, and soon his parchment was set up with a grid of points. Lacking a ruler at the moment, Chrys used his wand as a straight edge to draw in the diagonal grid. He paused for a few minutes to design the pattern in his head, then set to drawing. Over 1, over 3, over 6; over 2, over 4; then under 2, under 4; under 1, under 3, under 6... Soon the pattern was set. Chrys took a different quill and some red ink, and began the final layout and the weaving. Over, under, over, under, over, under... An hour and a half slipped by unnoticed.

One more line... Chrys sat back to admire his finished pattern. Then his pleasure turned to alarm as he noticed that the red ink glowed yellow at the edges of his pattern, and the entire knot work panel seemed to be lying upon the surface of the parchment, rather than drawn on it: almost as if he could pick it up and leave the parchment on the table. It glowed faintly with purpose and, to Chrys' dismay, even with a bit of power.

"That's rather good!" said a voice. Chrys jumped and looked around to see Professor Gillooly looking at the drawing. Then Professor Gillooly slipped the tip of his wand under the pattern, lifted it off the page, and held it before him, hanging from the tip of his wand. "One of the better victory knots I've seen in years. Some unusual elements, but on the whole very satisfactory. What does it celebrate?"

"I... I don't know, sir," stammered Chrys.

"You don't know? What were you doing, then?"

"I was just drawing a pattern, sir... for my own amusement."

Professor Gillooly looked sharply at Chrys for a moment. Then his features relaxed slightly into guarded amusement. "For your own amusement? Tell me, Gulder, how long have you been doing line magic?"

"I never knew there was such a thing, sir. At home... I mean, before the war, my drawings never behaved like that." Chrys nodded at the still-glowing pattern hanging from the wand.

"So we have an innocent adept here, do we? My, my, you seem to be full of surprises, Gulder."

"Yes, sir," said Chrys forlornly, "for myself along with everybody else."

"Hmmm," replied Gillooly, "Indeed? Well, don't be too reckless with your line magic until you learn better how to use it." He returned the pattern to the parchment and turned to go.

"Yes, sir," said Chrys. "But sir, what shall I do with this?"

Gillooly turned and glared at Chrys. "Do with it? Perhaps when you've finished celebrating whatever 'moral victory' you think you've achieved you could break your spell and stop annoying the rest of us!"

"How, sir?"

Professor Gillooly stared very hard at Chrys, who returned his gaze with an open mind. He was getting used to being constantly investigated with a mild truth spell. Didn't anybody ever tell the truth in the wizarding world? All right, he admitted, so the Muggle world wasn't any more truthful than the wizarding world, but this was becoming tedious.

"You really don't know," said Professor Gillooly with some surprise. "I thought you were just badgering us because of your religion."

"No, sir," replied Chrys. "Would you break this spell for me, please?"

Gillooly's attitude changed: his 'teacher' self came out. Most students at Hogwarts liked him. He was a bit pedantic, perhaps, but always an enthusiastic teacher. He sat down next to Chrys at the table. "Well, no I won't. However," he added, smiling at Chrys' disappointment, "I will teach _you_ how to break it. You see, generally speaking line magic can only be broken by the one who creates it. You created this victory knot, so you must un-do it. You created it by designing it, and then executing it... drawing it. It was completed when you drew the last line of the pattern, closing the last edge. To break the spell you must un-complete it." He looked at Chrys inquisitively.

"Oh! By erasing one of the lines! That would break the pattern and make it incomplete."

"That's it exactly."

"But I drew it with ink. I can't erase ink lines. Could I just tear up the parchment?"

"You could try."

Chrys picked up the parchment and tore it in half. The rip started at the top of the page, stopped at the pattern, then neatly went around the edge of the drawing, leaving the victory knot intact. He tried again, but the same thing happened. The parchment beneath the spell could not be torn.

"There seem to be certain side-effects to this type of magic," said Chrys. "I suppose if I were to burn the parchment the spell would still exist, just as when you picked it up with your wand."

"Very astute."

Chrys frowned in thought. Suddenly he looked up at Professor Gillooly with an impish twinkle in his eye. "Whatever would happen if you drew one of these spells in the snow? Would winter last forever?"

The room echoed with Professor Gillooly's laughter. What a sharp one this boy was! "Perhaps," he said, still grinning broadly, "you should solve this little problem before making plans to rival the White Witch of Narnia. Come now! How will you break your spell?" After a slight pause, he added drolly, "It _is_ a spell, you know. You _are_ a wizard, you know."

"With my wand?"

"That's the usual tool." Noticing Chrys' uncertainty, Professor Gillooly continued. "Touch one of the lines with the tip of your wand and twist slightly."

Chrys picked up his wand, smiling at the encouraging handshake he always felt from it. He touched one of the lines of the drawing and twisted. A tiny white spark appeared briefly at the tip and the _ting!_ of a silver bell rang out faintly at the edge of hearing. A tiny gap broke the line, and the glow of the pattern died away.

"And that's that," said Gillooly, smiling. "You know, you really are adept at line magic, and there are, as you observed, side-effects and even some hazards involved. Why don't you come up to my office tomorrow and let me coach you? Line magic is usually an elective for fourth years, but as I said, you seem to be ready for it."

"Yes, sir, I would appreciate that. I really don't want to be annoying." Then Chrys grinned, "Well, maybe a little. But I'd rather it be intentional instead of accidental."

"Ha, ha! I understand completely. I still remember my school days. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, then?"

"Yes, sir. And thank you, sir."

Professor Gillooly got up and left. Soon Chrys' good humor sagged, and frustration built up. _Dash it all! That's another thing I can't do here,_ he said to himself, _I have to be careful about any Latin words I know, and now I can't draw. Can't I do anything around here without it turning into some kind of magic?_ He crossed his arms on the table and plunked his chin down on his crossed wrists, frowning.

Is all magic intrinsically bad?

Dad had an annoying habit of bypassing the immediate irritation and confronting one with a fundamental issue which usually took much more effort to resolve.

"Oh, I suppose not," Chrys grumbled, "but you prohibited it, so it must be dangerous, isn't it?"

Dangerous? Yes. But then, I'm dangerous myself, you know.

"But you're good! and omniscient! I'm a fallen, limited human; a young and inexperienced one at that."

"Let us create man in our image, and let them rule over all the earth..." "For whom he foreknew he also predestined to become conformed to the image of his son..."

The few people left at Hogwarts were gathering at the head table for lunch. Chrys stayed at his place and thought for a few moments. Bringing magic into conformity to that Image. Now that would be an interesting challenge. But could he do it? Professor Gillooly's droll observation floated back to his memory: _You could try_. After a minute, Chrys grinned, and then went up to the head table for lunch.

* * *

"Now, then," said Professor Gillooly, "one of the interesting aspects of line magic is that the completed pattern often creates a resonance, so the intent behind the pattern can usually be felt as well as seen. With a really well-designed pattern, or sometimes a very intricate pattern, this resonance will be more subtle. However, a pattern made with a very specific emotional intent will jangle the nerves of anybody sensitive to magic." 

"So that's how you knew what I was doing!" said Chrys.

"Yes, that's how. You made a rather intricate pattern, and if you had fully actuated it, everyone in the castle would have run down there to see what you were celebrating." He paused, then said, "They would have _run_... to see."

"Oh..." said Chrys slowly, though his mind was racing through various scenarios. "That might not have been very pleasant."

"And that's exactly why you're here. As I said before, this is usually an elective for fourth years, who have had more practice at self-control. So, to help you catch up, I'm going to go through several self-control exercises with you." He brought out a piece of parchment, placed it on his desk, touched it with his wand, and the parchment flattened itself onto the desktop, angling itself appropriately for Chrys' convenience in writing. Then he gave Chrys a quill and a bottle of ink. "You're right-handed, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," responded Chrys.

"Good. Take the quill in your right hand and draw a series of straight vertical lines, one-half inch long, on the parchment. Don't worry: it won't slide about. Now, while you're doing that, I'm going to work with your left hand. I will not injure it, but I can't promise that your left hand won't twinge at bit now and then."

Startled, Chrys looked up at the Professor, who replied with an implacable, but not un-friendly, gaze. Then Chrys turned his attention to the parchment and started drawing lines. He felt his left hand being held and then gently massaged by Professor Gillooly. Suddenly, his left hand felt as if it were in a tub of ice water. Chrys gasped and fumbled a bit on his lines, but soon got back into rhythm. _A half-inch long, a half-inch long, nice and straight._ His left hand was very hot. It was nowhere near burning, but the change was so sudden and drastic that he glanced over at his hand... to see it sitting in Professor Gillooly's hand, perfectly dry and perfectly normal. Gillooly's gaze was a cool interrogative, seeming to say "And is there some reason you stopped drawing lines?" Blushing slightly, Chrys returned his attention to his lines. _A half-inch long, a half-inch long, nice and straight._

For the next twenty minutes his left hand seemed to travel over most of the world: warm and humid, cold and icy, hot and dry, balmy and windswept. He was beginning to get some confidence in his concentration when suddenly his left hand was tickled by a feather. That resulted in a very crooked line and a small smear.

"I got you on that last one!" chuckled Gillooly. "Now, let's see that parchment." He picked it up as easily as if it had never been stuck to his desktop. "Hmmm, I've seen worse. However, I can clearly identify every time something happened to your left hand. So, keep practicing with straight lines. Don't do any closed curves or shapes yet. That should keep you sufficiently occupied for the Holidays. Then we'll see what we see." He almost, but not quite, looked as if he were hiding something from the boy.

Chrys was aghast. Draw straight lines for ten days? Even with the self-control exercises, surely they could move along more quickly. He was just about to suggest that when Professor Flitwick knocked on the door. "Gulder, there's someone here to see you."

Chrys quickly packed up his parchments, pens, and inks. _Who could it be? Who knows I'm at Hogwarts? Who even knows I exist?_ He followed Professor Flitwick down to the Grand Foyer and saw…

"Uncle Al! Aunt Al!" Chrys dashed down the stairway and ran into their open arms. After a few moments of joyful confusion they all started moving toward the Great Hall.

"But I thought you had to travel on business. Is everything alright?"

"Well, Chrys," said Gulder, a little bashfully, "I hope you don't mind us playing this little trick on you. We wanted to do something special for the Holidays, so we thought just a touch of trickery might add to the fun."

"Yes," Aunt Al chimed in, "We both wanted to see Hogwarts again, and the Headmaster assured us that there would be enough food for two extra. So, after lunch… well, you'll see. Ah, Professor McGonagall, how good to see you again."

Lunch was quite festive that day. Many of the professors recognized the Gulders and reminiscences flowed as freely as the pumpkin juice. It was nearly two o'clock when Mr. Gulder said, "Great heavens! We've nearly talked the afternoon away. Run along, Chrys, and get your things, we need to get a move on."

"Pack some heavy clothes, dear; you'll want to bundle up. And don't forget Zhava," added Mrs. Gulder.

Chrys dashed to the Ravenclaw tower in record time. He was bubbling with excitement as he told the Lion, "My fosters came to get me for the holidays!" The Lion looked at him and raised its eyebrows slightly. "Oh, right," said Chrys, "_Veritas_." He scampered into the Common Room almost certain he could hear the Lion chuckling. Clothes and books and whatnot were tossed into the smaller of his trunks, then Zhava's traveling kit was got in order. "We're going home for the Holidays," he told her as he adjusted the _anima restricti_ to about six feet in diameter. Then he got two small packages out of his dresser. "Now I can give Uncle and Aunt their presents myself!" He tucked them carefully into a corner of his trunk, closed it and picked up Zhava's traveling kit. Then donning his winter cloak he headed toward the door.

The Gulders were waiting for him outside the entrance to the Common Room. Mrs. Gulder stooped down to pet Zhava, but the ferret seemed to have caught Chrys' excitement and ran a continuous romp around the three humans. Mr. Gulder waved his wand at the trunk and it rose about three feet into the air and obediently followed them down the hallway.

While Mr. Gulder and the trunk left through the main doors, Mrs. Gulder and Chrys put Zhava into her traveling kit. "You might put something warm in with her," said Mrs. Gulder. "It's a bit chill outside."

Chrys went through all of his pockets, but found nothing. He was about to run back to the dormitory when Mrs. Gulder casually said, "Well, now, Chrys. Haven't you learned anything this term?"

Chrys frowned with annoyance and embarrassment. Of course the Gulders would expect him to use magic: they'd paid out good money to have him taught and were probably under orders from the Ministry to keep making him use it. _OK, Dad; it seems they've got me cornered and I'm torqued about that. But besides all that, how can I solve this problem? How can I do it in a way that honors You?_ He felt around in his pockets again and found a piece of yarn about 3 inches long. Aunt Al was watching him with interest. She started to say, "Well, perhaps you could try…"

"Wait a minute! That's it!" cried Chrys. "Now, how did it go?" He rummaged through his memory. He remembered Selina had showed him the spell once. He grabbed his muffler and looked closely at the crocheted pattern. OK, then he'd just need to begin with… He smiled, "I've got it." He waved his wand in a tricky pattern over the piece of yarn, pronounced the spell, then poked his wand at the thread and spoke another spell. The piece of yarn looped around his wand, and started to crochet itself into a muffler.

Mrs. Gulder was startled. "What a clever idea, Chrys. I've never heard of anyone putting those two spells together like that. How did you think of it?"

"Actually, I got the general idea from a book. Only in that situation the man used loaves of bread instead of yarn. It seems to be easier to get ideas about how to help someone else instead of just helping myself." The new muffler was 9" wide and about four feet long when Chrys stopped the spell and tied off the end. He stuffed the muffler into the traveling kit and Zhava burrowed delightedly into it.

Mr. Gulder opened the door just then, barely containing his excitement. "Ready to go, dear? Ready, Chrys?"

"Yes, sir!" shouted Chrys. He grabbed Zhava's traveling kit and ran out the door, then stopped and gasped in amazement. At the foot of the steps was a sleigh hitched to a very large horse. It was almost laughable to see such a small sleigh hooked to such a large horse. Then the horse pawed the ground and stretched its wings.

"Do you like it, Chrys?" said Mr. Gulder.

"It's wonderful! It's beautiful! Is that our sleigh?"

"For the Holidays, it is. Merry Christmas, dear," said Mrs. Gulder. "Come on, let's get in."

They packed snuggly into the seat of the sleigh, putting Zhava's kit on the floor by their feet. Chrys insisted on having an outside seat so he could see everything. "Very well," agreed Gulder. "Now, if you'll manage the sleigh, Thea, I'll concentrate on the driving."

"Righto," she agreed, getting out her wand. "Off we go!"

Uncle Al lightly slapped the horse's rump with the reigns. It bounded into the air hauling the sleigh after it. The sleigh, under Aunt Al's deft control, sailed smoothly after the great horse. Everyone shouted with glee as they swooped once around the castle and then headed south.

* * *

NOTES: 

"Line Magic" - See "The Apprentice Adept" series by Piers Anthony

"White Witch" - See "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" by C.S. Lewis


	9. A Test

**A Test**

The holidays were over, and the winter term had begun. Daylight was short in duration and often weakened by clouds. When the clouds did clear, the sun was spectacular on the snow and ice. Still, there seemed (to some) to be a brooding coldness over the castle, and the fires were constant in any room with a fireplace.

* * *

Anyone who knew Chrys could tell he was agitated, but he didn't care about that just then. He walked quickly out the great front doors of the castle and stood for a brief moment scanning the grounds. _Father, where is she?_ This particular Saturday morning was sunny, and the hill was full of students sledding and skiing. He waved but shook his head absently, declining to join a snowball fight nearby. Then he spotted her in a sunny area by the greenhouses. He jogged over to her, and as he got nearer he was relieved to see that she seemed agitated, too. _Maybe there won't be much of an argument after all._

"Sarah!" he called quietly when he had almost reached her. She spun around and looked a little relieved to see it was Chrys. He stopped in front of her. "It's coming, isn't it?"

"So he told you, too?" Sarah looked both surprised and hopeful. "I mean, I guess I shouldn't automatically presume it was from Father, but it's the strongest warning I've ever felt."

"Same here, although I don't often feel communications the way you do. And somehow, it didn't feel like... like... Hogwarts, or magic, you know? Has anyone else mentioned it?"

"To me? Not likely," she said a little sadly. "You're the one everyone gets along with. But it was so _strong_, I'm surprised the whole school didn't sense it."

"Well, we are Ravenclaws. It's rather in our line to be far-seeing and all that. And I guess we're the only two Nonconformist Ravenclaws. Come on, let's go to the Uncommon Room and talk with Father about this."

* * *

"Whew!" said Chrys as they finally flopped down into chairs. "I have _never_ met that many people in the halls before! I didn't know I have so many friends." They spread their cloaks on nearby chairs to dry and warm before the fire. 

"Same here," said Sarah, "and they wanted to talk with me... with _me!_ It was almost..." she stopped, then went on quietly, "Almost as if someone were trying to prevent us from coming here." She looked at Chrys almost defiantly. "I'm not trying to make this some big mystical... something, but that's what it felt like."

Chrys looked at her for the span of a breath, then said, "I really wish I could chuck your explanation... but I can't. That's how it seemed me, too. What in the world are we up against?"

"I've been trying to talk with Father all day, and I can't get that stupid Sorting Hat out of my mind."

"Let's talk to Dad now. Maybe together we can keep each other on target."

They moved their chairs so they could face each other, and held hands. "Lord Father, You who made everything... Dad, we need help... You control the weather and planted the foundations of the mountains... You control the sun and moon and everything else in the solar system... Help, Dad. What is coming?... What are we up against?... I'm frightened... What should we do about it, whatever it is?... How can we best represent Your character?... I'm—frightened, too... Help, Dad. We're weak... Should we prepare to fight? Should we prepare to run?... Help, Father. We're foolish... Grant that we don't do something evil... Grant that we don't do something stupid... Help, Father... please..."

They sat quietly for a bit, then Chrys said, "Sarah, I think you need to make some friends, and I think they need to be in other Houses."

She sank back into her chair with a little groan. "The Sorting Hat! Do you remember its song? '_The rope that's made of four strands joined-- A stronger rope I've never met.'_ Maybe that's why it's been in my mind all day. Oh, but I've botched it up so badly. Who would ever be friends with me now?"

"You'll probably have to go slowly, which is why you've got to start now. But you can do it: I've seen glimmerings of friendship about you. And besides, keep Dad involved and he should help a lot."

"You're right," she acquiesced. "So, what's the purpose? I mean, friends are always great, but what does that have to do with... whatever is coming? Any clue?"

"The idea of 'teams' keeps popping into my head. When you think you've got some friendships built up, ask them if they would be willing to be on a team with you, or if you could be on a team with them. But it's got to be very gentle and casual because I have no idea what the teams will be or will do, if I'm right at all. I'm going to start, too. George will be easy, but I want Garnic and Selina as well."

* * *

"Pssst! Brian... over here!" 

MacDougal looked about, then found Bronach standing in a corner in the shadow of a pillar. Bronach seemed to be getting a bit more dodgy of late, but MacDougal slipped over to him.

"What's up, Conall?"

"The Circle is meeting, and we're doing an experiment." Bronach grinned in anticipation.

"When? Where? What time?" The meetings of The Circle were always stimulating, and now they were getting into some really powerful magic. Brian occasionally wondered where Bronach got this information, but then Conall had always been a bookworm.

"Half past midnight in the Forbidden Forest, full of woe. Enter about 200 yards beyond Hagrid's hut. Be sure to hide your tracks."

* * *

Winter dragged on. Just when everyone thought they'd go crazy from the gloom the sun would come out for a few days and dazzle everyone for the short time it controlled the sky. But Spring was inevitable, and moderate temperatures slowly penetrated the frost. Finally the last of the snow melted away and the ground took on an expectant cast, as if it were looking forward to being dried out a bit and fluffed up for the decoration of flowers soon to come.

* * *

"Class will now convene," said Professor Gillooly. He had to make this statement because the class did not usually meet just outside the main doors of the castle. Nor did they usually meet at 8:00 in the evening. "As I mentioned earlier this week, tonight we're having a mid-term examination. You should be able to guess by now that it is a 'practical' examination in Defense Against the Dark Arts. With the aid of several senior students, I have prepared a rather simple obstacle course. It is set up in the edges of the Forbidden Forest— with the Headmaster's approval, of course. Your task is to walk the course, successfully deal with whatever you meet, and arrive at the finish. Any questions?" 

The first-years looked at one another nervously, but no one said anything.

"My, my," said Gillooly, "what a trusting lot you all are. Yes, Mr. Tollers?"

"Sir, will the… obstacles we meet be real, or just illusions?"

"Oh, come now, Tollers," said Gillooly. "It wouldn't be much of a test if nothing were real, now would it? Miss Kent?"

"But we won't get hurt, will we? I mean, badly hurt?"

The Professor frowned at the group. "One and a half semesters in class and you still don't even know how to ask the right questions! This is likely to be a completely wasted evening." He sighed in resignation. "Yes, Miss Timson, what is your question?"

"Will we meet anything we have never discussed in class?"

"Now that's almost a respectable question. Congratulations, Timson. And the answer is 'Yes'. There is every likelihood you'll encounter something we've not discussed in class, and that is because…?" his eyes swept around the group.

Alf spoke up. "Because you never know what you're going to encounter when fighting the Dark Arts. That's why constant vigilance is necessary."

"Well done, sir!" beamed Gillooly. "You are forgiven your previous stupidity. Well, let's begin. Follow me." He strode down the steps toward the Forest, followed by a double line of rather nervous students.

* * *

It was chilly and a bit damp as Chrys and Alf walked together along the now-dark path. "Any chance the rest of the traps will be sprung already, since we're the last ones to go?" he said. 

"Not at all likely," replied Alf. "Especially not after he didn't answer my question at the beginning. You did notice that, didn't you, that he didn't answer my question? Nor Kent's question, which is more to the point."

They walked in a globe of light that Chrys made with his wand, their breath steaming in the chill air of early spring. The wand light showed the ground about ten feet around them on all sides, and about 12 feet over their heads. They tried to keep on the lookout for Grindylows and Bowtruckles, even Boggarts; but it was rather difficult to keep watch when you weren't sure what you were watching for.

"Oh-oh," said Alf, stopping and catching Chrys' arm to make him stop, too. "Not a good sign."

"What?"

"Notice the bushes growing up on either side of the trail? They're becoming thicker and more dense: we're being hemmed in. Something's up ahead, sure as trees are green. Should we put out our light?"

"Whatever's there knows we're coming anyway. Better to see, I say."

"Righto. Keep a sharp eye out."

They crept forward trying to walk as quietly as possible. The bushes along the path grew closer until they were quite a solid hedge, effectively restricting the options for maneuvering. Suddenly the path turned, and the boys jumped back a step and stared. Two trees stood, one on each side, leaving a narrow gap between them for the path. The glow of Chrys' light revealed an animal blocking the path.

"What on earth is that?" said Chrys in a shocked voice.

"No clue," said Alf. "I've never seen anything like it. It's about the size of a dog, but…"

"But eight legs? And look at those eyes: they're like a bug's eyes."

When it saw the boys stationary the animal paced a few steps between the trees. It seemed uncertain how to manage all eight legs. It also whined softly, and kept moving its head as if bothered by something on the back of its head or on its shoulders. It sat down and tried to scratch behind its ear, but the multiple legs got in the way.

"Poor fellow," said Alf, and stepped forward hesitantly.

Instantly the creature was on its feet, focused on the boys. A loud hiss came from its mouth instead of a bark, but there was no misunderstanding its intent. It guarded the path, and anyone trying to continue would have to get past the creature. The saliva dripping from its bared fangs gave added incentive for caution.

"It's just standing there," said Chrys nervously. "Perhaps if we just go slowly it will let us pass." He took one step forward. The creature immediately rushed toward the boys, stopping about five feet from the trees, but hissing like an angry snake. Chrys and Alf jumped back again.

"Perhaps not," said Alf.

Chrys frowned at the creature. "This isn't _right_," he said to himself. "It's wrong, it's wicked, it's… evil. Poor fellow…" he looked again, then corrected himself. "Poor dear, what has someone done to you?" He took a step forward, and the creature again attacked, but stayed within five feet of the trees.

"Careful, Chrys!" shouted Alf.

"I am, Alf. See? It's on some kind of leash charm: it never goes more than five feet away from the trees." He walked slowly toward the creature. It hissed and spat and danced on any number of legs, but never got any closer to the boys. Alf cautiously came forward as Chrys knelt about two feet away from the enraged creature.

"Well, watch what you're doing and don't get lost in thought. I'm going to keep one eye looking about just in case this is all a distraction, you know? _Lumos!_"

"Good plan, Alf. I want to think this through."

Between Alf's wand-light (held high over his head) and Chrys' wand-light (currently about knee-height), the creature cast a huge fantastic shadows on the bushes and trees. Chrys looked at the creature, then glanced at the shadows. "Acromantula," he muttered. Then outrage started to blossom in his belly. He stood, and his wand-light brightened with his anger. Chrys held the wand high, but pointed with his finger at the creature.

"You are a dog," he said, sternly, "but someone has put an acromantula into you. You are Frost-Beneath-Stars, a dog. You are Nycryss, an acromantula. And you… you… Other… you do not belong here. Binder of Nycryss, whoever you are come out!"

A very light breeze, smelling clean as mountain air, started drifting by, scarcely strong enough to move the robe around Chry's ankles. The wand-light didn't change, but the creature slunk backward, cowed, hisses alternating with whines louder than before. Chrys took one step forward, and said, "You know Who is in me. In that Name I dissolve any binding and command you to release Frost-Beneath-Stars and Nycryss. _In nomine dominum_, come out!"

A grey vapour seemed to seep out of the creature. The animal writhed on the ground, scratching, clicking, hissing, whining, and suddenly howling. When the vapour cleared away, on the path was a white and grey Husky lying next to a small, black acromantula… well, for an acromantula it was small: the body was about a foot in diameter and the legs sprawled to about six feet. Both animals seemed dazed, then the dog sneezed and jumped up. It savagely attacked the huge spider and killed it. Then the dog looked at Chrys and hesitantly wagged its tail.

"Good girl," said Chrys, smiling and kneeling down. The dog yipped with delight and bounded to Chrys, licking his face and wiggling all over with pleasure. "Here!" laughed Chrys, standing as best he could, "Here, steady now!"

"Watch out, Chrys!" said Alf, running over to them. "It might still be hexed!"

"No, she's alright now, aren't you, girl?" The Husky managed to sit down, but still quivered with excitement.

"Frost-Beneath-Stars," said Alf pensively. The dog immediately looked at him and wagged her tail. "That's her name, alright. How did you know it, Chrys? And however did you break the hex?"

"I'd be interested in hearing those answers myself," said a voice behind them. They spun around and saw Professor Gillooly leaning calmly against a tree along the path. He stood up and walked toward the two boys smiling. "That is without a doubt the most original approach to this sort of situation that I've ever seen," he said. "And by the way, Mr. Tollers, you get full marks for very correctly keeping watch on the whole situation instead of focusing only on the obvious issue." He waved his wand at the dead acromantula and it was suddenly encased in a thick cloth bag. Gillooly conjured up a short staff, put one end into the cloth bag and then slung it over his shoulder. "Professor Snape will be delighted to have various pieces of this. Well, come along. I'm not allowed to keep you out here all night, you know. None of the other students had to deal with anything like this, so I think this will suffice for your exam."

They started along the path, the husky frisking about them. "Sir," said Chrys, "is it alright to bring her along?"

"Oh, yes," said Gillooly with his grandfatherly voice. "In fact, I think it would be rather difficult to keep her away from you, at least for awhile."

After about three steps Alf couldn't hold back any longer. "Well, come on, Chrys," he said, "How did you break the spell? I didn't even realize there was one."

"Actually, I didn't think about it as a spell at all. I just looked at the dog—I mean the creature—and it seemed wrong and… and bad. I have a knack for knowing names; I guess that's part of my gifting. Is that sort of thing common among wizards, Professor?"

"It's not common," said Professor Gillooly, "but it's not unknown, either. The general term for that talent is 'Namer,' and you certainly seem to be one."

"A Namer," said Chrys with a bit of awe, "like Adam." He paused, then continued. "Anyway, I thought that if I could find the name of the creature that would give me some clue of how to deal with it. But when I looked at it, I seemed to find two names. That's never happened to me before. Then I looked more closely and realized this couldn't be any sort of natural… or even supernatural… creature. It didn't seem to… work well; it didn't know how to use all of its legs; it seemed to be constantly bothered or frustrated with itself. It seemed as though someone had taken a perfectly normal animal and somehow stuffed another, contrary animal into it. That got me angry, so I… pulled… harder (it's rather difficult to explain) and found two names, one which turned out to be the dog and the other which was the acromantula, and then a third… something… that I couldn't name. No wonder the poor creature couldn't get along with itself, having both of those beings stuffed into one body."

"Now that you mention it," said Alf, "it did seem to be at odds with itself, although it did make an awfully good guardian. Where did you find it, Professor? Did you…I mean…"

"No, I didn't," he replied. "I have no idea where it came from. I first saw it when you two boys did. It seemed like an interesting challenge, so I put a leash charm on it to restrict it a little and then waited to see how you would deal with it. I like the way you think, Gulder. Finding something's name is often very useful, and it's always wise to use your strengths when you're in an uncertain situation."

"But how on earth did you separate them," Alf persisted, "even knowing their names? I can't think of anything in Transformations or Charms or even Potions that comes close to that. And it didn't sound like any spell I've ever heard. What did you do?"

As they continued walking, Chrys thought for a few paces. "Well, I'll try to explain, but it may come out rather oddly because of the Memory Charm. I thought about my Father, you know: the One I worsh-… the One I… serve. I thought about how He made everything good and balanced in the beginning. I remembered reading in the Bib-… in my _book_ how evil spirits sometimes messed around with creati-… with the world, even getting inside people or animals and dominating them. When He was on earth, Jes-… Go-… the L… _L-or-d_ sometimes cast out these spirits. I was so angry at what had happened to Frost that I decided to do the same thing. I didn't use magic for anything except the light. The real healing was done by my Father." Chrys grinned hesitantly at Professor Gillooly and said, "He does fight the Dark Arts, you know."

Professor Gillooly walked looking straight ahead of him. His expression was difficult to read, but he didn't seem entirely pleased. Finally, still looking straight ahead, he said, "I think it would be a good idea, Gulder, for you to practice what you're supposed to be learning here at Hogwarts."

* * *

Chrys waited patiently while Paula balanced on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, she was quite lonely and the thought of having her own pet – a real, normal, non-magical pet – was very appealing. On the other hand, it could not be denied that Chrys had "acquired" this dog under extremely suspicious – that is to say, magical – circumstances. 

"You're sure she's not magical in some way?" Paula asked for the fourth time.

"Paula!" Chrys barely avoided rolling his eyes, but he sighed heavily. "I wouldn't have offered her to you if I thought she was magic in any way. At least you could trust me that much! Have I ever tried to trick you into doing magic… ever??"

She still looked stubborn. "Tell me again what happened."

Chrys jumped up out of his chair, ready to explode with frustration. Frost came over and nudged his knee with her muzzle, whining quietly. Chrys took a deep breath, unclenched his hands, then sat cross-legged on the floor. Frost lay down in front of him, her head in his lap, and looked up lovingly at him. "Alright: once more. If you're not satisfied then, just forget it." He started stroking Frost's fur. "Her name is Frost-Beneath-Stars, and yes, I used magic to find that out: but that was my magic, not hers. Alf and I found her on the path in the Forbidden Forest last night when we all had our Defense Against the Dark Arts exam. When we found her she was under a spell and was oppressed by a demon. Someone or something, I don't know what, had magically combined Frost with an acromantula. Of course, I didn't know what it was: I just felt something was wrong… was evil. When I figured out that something was holding the dog and the acromantula together, I got really angry. It was such a travesty of Father's work. Then it crossed my mind that maybe the binding was being held by a demon, so I cast it out using the Name we're not allowed to say. I guess it was a demon because Frost started thrashing around just like some stories from The Book tell. When the demon was gone, there were two separate animals: the dog and the acromantula. It's a good thing that Frost woke up first because she killed the acromantula. And that's what happened. I didn't use any magic to try to fix up Frost, and I haven't noticed any sort of magic about her. She wanted to follow me home and I didn't want to leave her in the Forest where something else could get her. I've already got Zhava and she's a handful by herself. So if you don't want Frost then I'll just take her down to Hagrid and ask him to try to sell her in Hogsmead or something."

"Thank you, Chrys," said Paula after a very slight pause. "I don't mean to doubt you. It's just... just…" She shook her head ruefully. "She does rather look like frost, doesn't she?"

At hearing her name the dog looked over at Paula, then started wagging her tail. Paula smiled. "Hello, Frost. Will you be my pet?" The dog cocked her head and looked at the girl quizzically, but kept wagging her tail.

"She doesn't seem to understand language any more than most dogs," said Chrys (with secret relief). "Maybe if you called her."

"Come here, Frost," said Paula, smiling. The dog jumped up and bounded over to Paula (it was a rather short bound) and began enthusiastically licking the girl's face. "Here now!" laughed Paula, trying to control the dog, "Steady! Sit down! Down!" Eventually Frost subsided. "I guess she needs a bit more training." Suddenly, Paula looked distressed. "Oh, but where shall I keep her? Will they allow her in the dormitory? She's rather large."

"Maybe Hagrid will let her stay down with him and Fang," suggested Chrys. "There would be more room for her to run about, and you could still see her several times a day. Let's go ask. And perhaps Hagrid would have a bit of leather that we could use to make a collar and leash."

"Splendid!" said Paula. "Let's go right now!"

After they had committed Frost to Hagrid's care, Chrys returned to the castle and went to the Uncommon Room. He got down The Pilgrim's Progress and started leafing through the book. It was rather heavy wading, but fortunately this was an annotated copy which listed all the Scriptures alluded to by Bunyan. This was what Chrys wanted just then.

_How, Dad?_ he mused. _How can I conform my magic to Your image?_

What did you do last night?

_Hardly anything._

That's a good start. But some of your muscles did move, didn't they?

_Alright, I did speak to it, and I commanded the demon to leave in Your Name… as much as I could, you know. But You did all the work: You did all the healing._

And you did no magic whatsoever?

_I made a bit of light… and I discovered the names of the two animals…_

Much can be communicated by the slight lifting of an eyebrow, the cocking of a head, the descending "Hmmm." But when there are no eyebrows or head or sound of any kind… Well, talking with Dad was usually an unusual experience.

_So, You mean I could— I could use magic… or not, whichever is appropriate… to expose the situation… and then— then ask You to handle what I can't. Right?_

Shoulders that weren't there shrugged slightly as if acknowledging the possibility of Chrys' hypothesis. Again, Professor Gillooly's droll comment from the previous term drifted into Chrys' mind: _You could try_. Then a smile he couldn't see washed over him, rejuvenating comfort and hope.

* * *

She caught his eye in the hallway and nodded toward the courtyard. When MacDougal got to the courtyard, Watkins was sitting on a bench in the only sunny spot there. MacDougal sat next to her and muttered, "What's up?" 

They both looked casual, but the whole conversation was carried on very quietly. "Have you noticed, I mean really noticed Bronach lately? He's getting dodgier, and it's starting to come out in the hallways and classes, not just in The Circle."

"Oh, that's just an act he's pulling off," said MacDougal. "He's always one to put on a big air of mystery. He's just going a little over the top. I'll talk with him."

"Do that. You're the only one he seems to listen to." Watson sniffed. "I don't want to have The Circle blown open just because Bronach wants a bit of attention."

"I'll talk with him," repeated MacDougal.

"Well, be careful. He's getting stronger. He ripped a three-foot tall bronze sconce out of the wall with his bare hands: no magic. We only just had time to get it back into place and fixed before the prefect came by."

* * *

NOTES: 

"In nomine dominum" - "In the name of the Lord." Apparently the Latin got past the Memory Charm.


	10. Final Exam

**Final Exam**

"Sarah! George! NOW!" Chrys ran into the Uncommon Room where, as he expected, Sarah and George were reading. "It's here, and we've got to fight it!"

George and Sarah jumped to their feet. "What is it?" asked George.

"I don't know yet, but it's here and it's evil, and I have a hunch that magic won't stop it. Come on!"

The three ran from the room and down the hallway. At the first turn they ran into Pevin (literally).

"Sorry, Pevin," shouted George over his shoulder.

"Yes, sorry, Garnic, we can't stop now!" said Chrys as the they and Sarah ran down the hallway. Garnic took one glance at them, then ran after them. When he caught up, Chrys said, "No, Garnic! You can't come!"

"But I want to help."

"Well, you can't," said George gruffly. "This enemy is way beyond you."

Still running with them, Pevin gritted out, "Well I'm going to stick with you as a friend anyway."

"Just, please," said Chrys, "don't use any magic. None whatever, got it?"

"Got it."

* * *

Supper had finished and about half of the students at Hogwarts had drifted away, either to their Common Rooms or to the Library. Suddenly Watkins, one of the Slytherin girls, came running up the stairway into the Grand Foyer. 

"It's Bronach!" she cried. "He's gone mad!" The other Slytherins ran over to the stairway and then stopped in shock.

An invisible aura of dread emanated from the bottom of the stairway. Conall Bronach was standing there, his robe gone and his trousers and shirt with large gashes in them. His feet were bare and bloody, and every inch of exposed skin was either bruised or lacerated. His eyes looked haunted and somehow disconnected from the rest of his face, yet he stood like a majestic tower, somehow looking down on the students above him in the Grand Foyer.

"You look at what?" he bellowed. "You no like my appearing?"

"Bronach... Conall... what's happened to you?" MacDougal slowly approached the stairway.

Bronach started to climb the stairs. "What happened to me?" Even a quiet sentence from him seemed to echo in the hallways. "What happened? You there when you children thought you summoning me!" Then he laughed and everyone cringed at the sound.

"Stop where you are!" MacDougal looked up to see Professor Dumbledore and every teacher at Hogwarts surrounding the stairwell, wands at the ready.

"Get back, MacDougal!" snapped Professor McGonagall. "Everyone, get back!"

"Wizards!" said Bronach, with deep contempt. "Walking mud dolls, play with Tellurian vertices and energies: think they important."

Dumbledore twitched his wand slightly and two professors shouted "Stupefy!" as light erupted from their wands. A half-second later, Gillooly shot a full body lock at Bronach. The boy wavered slightly from the force of the spells. His eyes winced but his face retained the contemptuous sneer, and he was otherwise unaffected.

"Hah!" he said. "You really think Tellurian energy can affect _me_?" His face seemed to contort painfully to pronounce the words but his voice was calm.

With that he climbed up the remaining stairs and stood in the Grand Foyer in majesty and dread. He snapped his fingers and a whirlwind started blowing all the pictures off the walls. They crashed to the floor, then the wind picked up shards of wood and glass and spun them around the room.

The students screamed and hid their faces in their hands, trying to dodge the flying debris. Most of them ran away down hallways or up stairways: anywhere to get away from the dread presence. The teachers kept firing spells at the creature, but the only effect was a dark nimbus that started emanating from the boy.

"Crucio!" An ugly red beam flared from Snape's wand. When it hit, Bronach screamed in agony. He spun around to face Snape. Tears poured from his eyes, but his mouth was twisted into a grin as he calmly said, "He don't much like that spell, do he? Why not hit him again? It sound amusing."

Everyone stopped. Dumbledore called, "Who _are_ you?"

Bronach/It reached out and clamped his hand on nothing. Then he rotated his wrist as if turning something upside down. Professor Dumbledore was suddenly dangling in the air, feet upward. "Little mud doll," It/Bronach said mockingly, "You need to see: more than magic in universe. Who am I?" the stones of the castle shook at the sound of its voice. "I walked on Stones of Fire in beginning. I saw this tiny planet made, with its tiny energies and matrices. Who are _you?_ You think you got brains and strength to talk with ME?" It laughed, then tossed Dumbledore against a wall where he collapsed in a heap.

"Run!" shouted McGonagall to the remaining students. "Run! Get out of here!"

"Yes, run" laughed Bronach. He gestured and the Great Doors disappeared. "Run anywhere like... in castle. But I staying. And so are you!"

* * *

They stopped at the top of the stairway to the main floor, overlooking the Grand Foyer. As they got there, Bronach climbed to the main floor to face the teachers and the whirlwind started blowing the pictures off the walls. Chrys dropped to his knees and dragged the others down with him. "Dad, help! I'm frightened to death of this thing, and I think we all are." 

"Yes!" added three voices.

"Please help us," Chrys continued. "We're not strong enough to fight this thing, but You are. We're not wise enough to trap it, but You are. Dad, whether we seem to win or seem to lose, please defend the honour of Your Name."

"Right," said George. "Let's go. And remember: no magic! Garnic, you really ought to stay here."

"Stuff it," said Garnic, grinning weakly.

Students and some teachers ran screaming down the halls and up the stairs past the four. Down in the foyer the sounds of battle started again.

"Come on!" said George, and they ran down the stairs after him.

It/Bronach was almost surrounded by the teachers who still fought. They kept attacking it, and it kept brushing them off. The air whirled around, sometimes as thin as on a mountaintop, sometimes as thick as in a jungle. The dark nimbus almost dwarfed Bronach's body which was sustaining a lot of damage. His eyes, still pouring down tears, were full of pain and horror. Its hand flicked a finger and the doors to the Great Hall blasted inward. Another flick, and the entire ceiling collapsed leaving the room open to the sky. Dumbledore had revived and rejoined the battle, but all of the remaining teachers looked as if they knew they were looking Death in the face and could do nothing about it.

* * *

The shepherd was starting up his campfire for the night. It was good to see the sun staying up longer now. Then, even before his dog started barking angrily, he felt it. The feeling of oppressiveness that was usually around this place was suddenly gone. 

"Steady, Colin!" said the shepherd. "Don't draw attention to us 'til we find out what we're dealing with." He looked where the dog was looking and saw, across the loch and up about a mile, a castle. The highlands were on his side of the loch so he was actually looking down toward the castle. It looked small, but the shepherd saw it was a good way off, so it must be a large place.

"Will you look at that?" he said. "Ah never saw that place before." Even as he watched, the roof of the central section collapsed in on itself, and one of the towers seemed to wobble. The crashes and booms echoed in the valley, eventually reaching the ears of the shepherd. "An' Ah think Ah'll not be goin' any closer. In fact..." he whistled at the dog, "Colin, get the sheep up. We're movin' a bit further away."

* * *

George led Chrys, Paula, and Garnic as they broke through the line of teachers. "STOP!" cried Dumbledore, and the teachers lowered their wands slightly. "Get back!" he ordered the four students. 

"No, sir," said George, "You all need to get back." Then he faced It/Bronach and said, "Come out of him and go away."

The wind died down and It/Bronach scanned the line of teachers. "Professor... Snape, I think," It growled. "Use little red spell on these."

Snape's right hand gripped his wand and his right arm raised, even though he was fighting against it every way he knew how.

"What we are," said Sarah, "is unimportant. We're not coming against you with magic." They all raised both of their hands, showing them to be empty.

"Snape," It said threateningly.

"No."

"Snape!!"

"N-no...!" Sweat poured off Snape's face, but his arm pointed at the four students. Suddenly his left hand swung around and snapped his wand in two. "No!" he said defiantly, even as he was flung against a wall.

"What is important," continued Paula, shaken but resolute, "is Who is in us. Open your eyes: you can see Him yourself. In His Name we cast you out!"

It/Bronach looked at them, then threw his hands up to his face as if to hide. The dark nimbus pulled in somewhat, but the body retained its proud stance. "Who cares who lives in you? You not know who I am!"

"You are Aēsma-daēva," said Chrys, "and you have great power. We have no power to match yours, but He Who lives in us is stronger than you. In His Name, we command you to leave."

The demon frowned with Bronach's face. "What His Name? Tell me, if you know."

George spoke up. "Even if we can't say His Name, you can see He is in us. He has all power, He has all authority. In His Name and in His authority, we command you to leave."

A twisted parody of a smile grew on Bronach's face while the reflection in his eyes changed from terror to hysteria. "Tell me His name, _Christian_! Tell me His name!" It snapped its fingers and the wind began raging in the Grand Foyer again. Debris flew about like a cloud of shrapnel.

"You know His Name!" shouted George. "You know He is here! In His Name, we command you to leave!"

"Haldane! Watch to the left!" shouted McGonagall. George ducked but then fell sideways. A heavy piece of picture frame clipped him above his ear and he collapsed on the floor. McGonagall raced over to him, crouched down and waved her wand. "Protego!" The spell created a shield to protect her and George from the increasing maelstrom.

"You want protection?" mocked the demon. The shield protecting McGonagall and Haldane suddenly became solid, imprisoning them beneath it. The teachers focused on trying to protect themselves and the students from the barrage of shards of glass and wood flying around them but their efforts were only partially successful. Several more teachers fled the scene until only Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Flitwick were in the Grand Foyer, and all they could do was dodge the shrapnel. Some pieces even hit Bronach, but the demon seemed unconcerned. "What is His name?" he challenged.

"Dad! Help!" shouted Chrys, skipping and dodging. He had the odd sensation that he was sprinting as fast as he could over a moving surface composed of sticks and glass; sprinting, but staying in the same place. His hands beat the larger pieces of debris away from his head, but the rest of his body was thumped and occasionally pierced.

"Father, help us!" screamed Sarah, who was being spun around and nearly picked up by the whirlwind. The wind blew upwards, forcing her robe out and upward, entangling her arms and nearly enshrouding her head.

"In the Name of Jesus, come out of him!"

The wind stopped instantly. Chrys knelt down, panting, then immediately stood and spun to face Bronach. Paula's robe allowed her to force it back down into place, and she also looked around quickly. Bronach's body stood as if transfixed, and glared at Garnic. "Anybody can say that Name," growled the demon.

"Garnic!" pleaded Chrys. "Don't try to fool it!"

Garnic looked pale but determined. "I have less knowledge and experience that the other three, but look for yourself, Aēsma-daēva. The same Jesus is in me. In the Name of Jesus, get out!"

Sarah walked carefully over to Garnic. "In the Name of Jesus, come out of him and never come back!"

Chrys painfully joined them. "In the Name of Jesus, Who is our Lord and _your Master_, come out of him and never come back!"

Bronach's body collapsed to the floor and writhed there, shrieking. "If you throw me out, the boy die, too!" The dark nimbus pulled completely back into the boy's body.

"You lie!" said Paula. "Go back to the Father of Lies and get a better story. In the Name of Jesus, come out of Bronach and never come back!"

Garnic and Sarah and Chrys gathered around Bronach. They didn't shout, they didn't wave their hands, they just kept repeating: "In the Name of Jesus, come out of Bronach and never come back."

Finally the demon gave a long shriek which shook the castle, and the dark nimbus seeped away from Bronach's body and into oblivion. Bronach lay unmoving on the floor of the Grand Foyer amidst the broken glass and wood. Chrys limped over to George and Professor McGonagall, who had been released from the shell when the demon left. Paula went over to check on Professor Snape. Garnic knelt down and called to his fellow Slytherin.

"Bronach! Conall, are you alright?"

Professor Dumbledore staggered up to them. "We need to take him to the Infirmary..." he looked about at the destruction and the battered people still left in the Grand Foyer, "...somehow."

Chrys added, "And George, too." George was sitting up groggily, but blood was seeping steadily from his head where he'd been struck. Chrys ripped a piece from his well-torn robe and made a makeshift bandage for George's head.

"I think we all need to go," said McGonagall wearily. "And, Mr. Haldane, if you don't have the sense to walk slowly, I'll wrap you in a net and fly you there." She paused, then said almost sadly to herself, "If I still can."

"There's no way we can carry Professor Snape," said Paula. "How shall we get him to the Infirmary?"

Dumbledore looked over to Flitwick. "Flitwick," he asked, "Do you suppose you can handle Mr. Bronach? I'll try to deal with Snape."

With Dumbledore levitating Professor Snape, Flitwick levitating Bronach, and McGonagall and the four students bringing up the rear, they painfully made their way to the upward stairway. By then, some of the older students had returned and they helped the nine survivors get to the Infirmary. Nearly all of the nine ended up floating into the Infirmary on levitation spells.

* * *

Fortunately the Infirmary had escaped most of the jumbling around that the rest of the castle had experienced, and Madame Pomfrey treated the various cuts and bruises first before moving on to the more serious injuries. The students, except George and Bronach, had only bruises and small lacerations, which were patched up quickly. The professors also had relatively few serious injuries, and they were able to leave after about an hour. Chrys, Paula, and Garnic gathered around George's bed while Madame Pomfrey worked with Bronach. George was still unconscious from when he'd fainted on the way to the Infirmary. 

"Garnic," said Chrys. "How...?"

"I heard you and George talking, and I watched you... and even Paula. I decided there must be something to what you were saying so I started hiding in your 'Uncommon Room' and listening to you."

"You were hiding and watching us?" squeaked Sarah. "Where did you hide?"

Garnic smiled impishly. "It's really not too difficult to hide, especially if the people you're hiding from are focused on something else."

Chrys groaned. "And we thought we were being so careful."

"Not careful enough by half."

"You mean the whole school got in there and watched us?" Chrys looked dismayed.

"Well, we probably would have, but the Lion stopped us."

Paula and Chrys looked at each other dumbfounded. "The... the lion?"

"Yes, the big painting right near the door. You must have seen it a thousand times. Anyway, when we tried to get close to the door it growled at us. When we tried to actually go in, it roared and a portcullis gate appeared in the doorway. We could never get in.

"How did _you_ get in?" asked Sarah, "and why?"

"Why?" said Garnic. "I was going crazy trying to figure you out. I've never met anyone like Chrys and George before. They had a stability about them, and they were friendly but in a bigger way somehow. And nobody could get over how Chrys handled the elephant trunk hex. Everything I've read or heard about Christians made them out to be really harsh and stuck up, like... well, I'm sorry, Paula, but... like you. Or like you were. But then _you_ started to change! This term you started becoming... nice! I had to find out what was going on.

"So one Sunday afternoon I went to the Room. The Lion growled at me, so I walked up to it and asked if it would please let me in. It asked me why I wanted to get in, and I said I had to find out what made you three tick. It laughed a little, then let me in."

Madame Pomfrey interrupted them. "All right, you three can continue your discussion somewhere else. It's evident Mr. Haldane isn't going to wake up soon, and that's all to the good. If you come back in the morning, he'll probably be released."

"Yes, ma'am," said Chrys, reluctantly. He looked around and noted that the other professors had already left.

"How is Bronach doing?" said Sarah.

"Fairly well, I think. The gashes and bruises are healing well, but he'll be here a bit longer than Mr. Haldane. He's still extremely frightened."

"May we see him?" asked Sarah, "Just for a minute?"

Madame Pomfrey thought for a moment, then said, "Well, just for one minute, but I'm setting a timer."

They crossed over to Bronach's bed. He was bandaged nearly from head to foot, and his right arm was in a cast. He couldn't move much, but he was agitated; fear looked out of his eyes, and beneath the fear was a deep horror of haunting.

"What are we going to say?" whispered Chrys. "I'm at a complete loss."

Bronach looked at them, recognized them, and tears started seeping from his eyes. Sarah reached out and very gently touched his chest.

"Don't be afraid, Bronach." Even Chrys was surprised at how gentle and kind her voice was. "Don't be afraid. He's gone, and he's never coming back. Be at peace, Bronach; sleep in peace, and awaken to healing."

Bronach looked at her for a moment, then his body relaxed. His eyes drifted closed and his breathing became regular.

"Well done, Timson," said Madame Pomfrey quietly. She ushered them to the door. "It seems you've learned a few things from your many visits here."

* * *

NOTES: 

Tellurian - from Tellus, Roman goddess of the Earth. In this case, Tellurian means terrestrial or earth-bound.

Aēsma-daēva - Usually translated 'Asmodai,' considered one of the major demons.


	11. Denoument

**Chapter 11**

George, Chrys, Paula, and Garnic were seated on chairs in one of the larger classrooms, facing the entire teaching staff of Hogwarts. The atmosphere was tense, but the disapprobation was not directed toward the students: it was among the teachers.

"First of all," said Dumbledore, beginning the meeting, "let me make it clear that this is in no way any sort of trial or adjudication. Something significant, even frightening, happened yesterday, something that few of us teachers ever imagined could happen. The best of our efforts to fight an evil were completely ineffective. That is a very difficult experience to assimilate... if you survive it. On the other hand, you four, first-year students, fought it successfully. That alone made the experience humiliating, and no one likes to be humiliated. As for myself, right now I would much rather be comfortably locked away in my office, soothing my badly injured pride. But my job and my duty require me to find out what happened and how– or if– we can prepare for it in the future. That is the purpose of this meeting."

"Sir?" asked Chrys. "I'm completely willing to tell whatever I can, but before we get started, may I ask a question? It has direct bearing on yesterday's events."

"Your question, Mr. Gulder?"

Chrys look around the room. "Around the beginning of this term, did anyone get any sort of... warning, or... premonition about Hogwarts? The reason I ask is because Paula and I did receive one at that time, and we want to know if anyone else at Hogwarts had a similar... premonition."

A few of the Professors glanced at Professor Trelawney; several others looked distinctly away from her. It didn't take her long to compose an answer. "I received no warning from across the Ether. Perhaps in the Cosmic Realm this event was not considered necessarily significant." A few glares and restrained coughs from other professors prompted her to quickly add, "But you may all be _assured_ that had any such warning, or any warning at all, crossed the Inner Eye, I would have reported it instantly to the Headmaster."

"Anybody else?" Dumbledore respectfully inquired. No one responded, so he turned to the four students. "Tell us about this warning."

Chrys told the story. "So you see," he said in finishing, "all we had was a warning. We had no idea what was coming, we only knew it was evil."

"And what did you do to prepare for this unknown event?" prompted Dumbledore.

"Well, George and Paula and I got together frequently and prayed abou... " Chrys stopped suddenly, realizing he had just pronounced a word he'd been unable to pronounce for more than 8 months. Paula and George stared at him, but Chrys decided to forge on as long as he could. "We prayed about it and asked Jesus to guide us in what to do. Prayer is nowhere near as concrete a form of communication as sending an owl,..." George and Paula grinned here, but everyone else intently listened to Chrys. "... but I started to get the impression of friendships between the different Houses. One time when Paula and I were praying together, I mentioned this to her, and said I thought she needed to be making friends from the different Houses." He glanced at Paula, and she nodded.

"I thought Chrys was telling me to do the impossible; making friends at all, let alone from other Houses. And... well, now's as good a time as any." Paula stood up and bowed to the Professors of Hogwarts. "I apologize for my attitude and behaviour during the first term. I was rude, arrogant, and nearly irrational. I thought I was fighting for my faith, but I was just hurting other people, and myself as well. I recognize that now, and I've tried to change this last term. I'm still very irritating and old patterns are hard to break, but with Jesus' help I'm trying." Then she sat down.

The professorial faces were all very carefully neutral, although some eyes did register significant surprise.

George picked up the telling. "So we prepared every way we knew, which wasn't much. We read as much of the Bible as we could from the other books in the castle, and prayed a lot. When the confrontation finally came, our primary fear was realized. We all dreaded the thought that it might be a demon, but I guess deep down we all figured it probably would be one. And it was."

"How did you know it was a demon?" asked Dumbledore.

Chrys replied. "I didn't know until we got there. As Professor Gillooly will tell you, I'm a Namer and when I actually saw it, I knew what it was and who it was. It isn't really necessary to know a demon's name to throw him out, but sometimes it helps."

"You seem to have 'thrown him out' successfully," mused Dumbledore, "and without using magic."

"That was the point, sir," said George. "From what research we were able to do in the Bible, it seems that demons almost never respond to magic. The one time the Bible talks about some magic-workers trying to cast out a demon, it backfired on the magic-workers and the man with the demon jumped them and beat them up. So we knew we couldn't use magic against the demon, and we had to get between you all and it. I... I hope we weren't too insolent, sir, but we were in a bit of a rush."

"The four of you were completely insolent," said Dumbledore mildly. "But it seemed to be necessary under the circumstances."

Paula continued. "So we used the one weapon that we were certain would defeat any demon, and that was the Name of Jesus. And sir, thank you for removing the Memory Charm. That made it much easier to fight the demon."

"Ah, the Memory Charm," said Dumbledore. "A brief digression, if you will allow me. The Ministry recommended that it be left in place for 18 months. That leaves 10 months to go. What would you say to having it re-instated?"

Paula looked very stubborn, but kept her mouth tightly shut. George looked at Chrys, and Chrys looked at the floor for a moment. "I wouldn't like it, sir," said Chrys finally, raising his head, "but if you would get into serious trouble because of its removal, then I would put up with it for another 10 months."

Garnic spoke up. "If they have to have a Memory Charm, I want one just like theirs. Fair is fair, and I'm a Christian just like them."

Murmurs began humming around the room amongst the teachers. No one had quite foreseen this possible effect of having students like Chrys and Paula and George at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the humming subsided. "Mr. Peven, that was nobly spoken. As a matter of fact, I did not remove the Memory Charm from anyone: that seems to have been an auxiliary effect of the... weapon you used. I will not try to re-instate it just now, firstly because it's an immensely complex charm that requires detailed preparation. Secondly, because I, and others, need to think this through a bit. In the meantime, if you three could restrain yourselves in your newfound freedom for a few days, it would be much appreciated."

Hope kindled in their eyes, and Chrys, Paula, and George promised to behave as if the Memory Charm were still in effect.

"Now, Mr. Pevin," continued Dumbledore. "Would you explain your involvement in this affair?"

Garnic explained how he had been sneaking into the Uncommon Room and listening to the other three. Professor Flitwick was amused by the name 'Uncommon Room,' but when Garnic told how he'd been kept out of it for so long, Flitwick was startled.

"You mean the Lion portrait wouldn't let you into the False Room?" he asked. "I've never heard of that happening before. And a portcullis gate? I'll have to inspect the portrait directly."

"After I was allowed to get in," continued Garnic, "I hid and listened in to them talking and praying. They didn't act like anything I'd ever heard about Christians. So I started borrowing books from the room and reading up. I couldn't escape the logic of some of them, or the joy of others, or the beauty of others, or the brilliance of others. So, as best I could, I prayed... I guess... and admitted that I was self-centered and heading in the wrong direction. I submitted myself to Jesus, and asked if he'd be willing to take on another servant. He seemed to be willing."

There was a long pause, then Professor Snape spoke lazily from the back of the room. "So now you four are strong enough to cast out demons. What worlds are left to conquer?"

"No, sir." "Not at all, sir." The four nearly tripped over one another denying the statement.

"Please, sir," Chrys appealed to Dumbledore. "We are _not_ strong enough to fight demons. Only Jesus is strong enough."

"But you can invoke him and convince him to fight."

"I think," said George, "that's only because throwing out demons is something Jesus specifically told His followers to do when He left this planet. He's not like a genii. We're His servants, not the other way around."

After another long pause, Dumbledore thanked and dismissed the students. When they were gone, he addressed the teachers. "I've sent notice to the Ministry of the damage we've incurred here, and they're sending Aurors and reinforcements. They should arrive this afternoon and start rebuilding the wards and protections around Hogwarts."

"You mean we're exposed now?"

"Completely exposed," confirmed Gillooly, "to Muggles and everyone else. The Ministry agents will have a busy year tracking down rumors of sightings of Hogwarts."

There followed a discussion about the extent of the damage to the castle, and plans to repair it.

"This is all very necessary," intoned Snape, who had not participated in the discussion, "but about the larger question? What about this Christian non-magic which seems able to include wizards as well as Muggles?"

The room became uncomfortably silent as the teachers looked around at one another, seldom making real eye contact with anybody.

"I, for one," warbled Trelawney, "see no reason to change anything at Hogwarts. We are all experts in our fields; we are all teaching what has held the Wizarding World together for centuries."

"And which was completely incompetent to deal with a demon!"

"Oh, demons, demons... you're sounding just like all those Muggles."

"Well, this time they happened to be correct."

"Have Binns review his history notes. Surely wizards have dealt with demons in the past."

The discussion went on for quite a while. Finally, Dumbledore summarized it, for the moment at least. "This situation gives every evidence of being an anomaly. We can't restructure everything at Hogwarts on the basis of one unusual occurrence, so we will continue as before with the addition of more research about the topic of demons. There is no compelling reason to encourage this Christian non-magic, although, based on our experience with these three students, it seems rather difficult to discourage it." He signed ruefully, then continued, "And now, let's all get to work on the castle."

* * *

As they walked down the hallway, Garnic asked, "Chrys, when you're in the Uncommon Room you call her Sarah, but everywhere else you call her Paula. Why is that?" 

"Because Sarah is her real name," answered Chrys. "I thought it would comfort her somehow to hear her real name, but the Memory Charm held fast and she never recognized it."

Paula stopped, and realization lit up her face. "It _is_!" she said. "My name is Sarah!"

George rounded on Chrys, almost angrily. "And why didn't you ever tell me my real name?"

"George," said Chrys, "I've always called you by your real name. Someone in the Ministry of Magic slipped up, and your 'new' name is the same as your real name."

"I... you mean..." George searched his memory, looked startled, then burst out laughing. "I really am George! What a gas!"

Everyone laughed with him, then Sarah said, "What's your real name, Chrys?"

"It's Nathan," said Chrys. He paused for a moment, then said, "but I'm sticking with Chrys for awhile." They had reached to Grand Foyer. Clean up was underway, but even with the older students helping, it was going to take a lot of work. No one had attempted to repair the ceiling of the Great Hall yet. "I guess we'd better check in to see how our dormitories are doing. Ravenclaw is basically alright, but it's right next to the Astronomy Tower, which is in bad shape. How is Slytherin, Garnic?"

"Mostly alright, being underground and all. But we have developed a few leaks which need attending to."

"I haven't seen Gryffindor since the battle, so I'll have to find out," said George, and he turned off toward Gryffindor.

Chrys held his hand out to Garnic, who took it firmly. "Garnic," said Chrys, "you were magnificent yesterday. You were so brave to face the demon like you did. I'm honoured to be your friend."

"You and George, and you, too, Pau– I mean, Sarah, you showed me an extra dimension to friendship. And you introduced me to Jesus. How can I ever repay that?"

"Why even think about repayment?" smiled Chrys. "None of us can repay all the debts we owe."

"Coming through! Coming through!" called a sixth-year, guiding a floating load of debris toward the front doors.

"I'm off to Slytherin," called Garnic.

"See you later," called Sarah, as she and Chrys started for the Ravenclaw Tower.


End file.
